


our diverging paths (they cross again)

by wrenstars



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrenstars/pseuds/wrenstars
Summary: ingrid, leonie, gronder field, and what comes after.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Leonie Pinelli
Comments: 9
Kudos: 36





	1. diverging paths; the pinnacle of fate

**THE CROSSROADS**

**DIVERGING PATHS;  
THE PINNACLE OF FATE**

Ingrid gasps and instinctively yanks on Odette’s reigns as an arrow zips past her shoulder, jerking them out of the way. The arrow sails past into the empty, open air behind them, its course a long way off: Ingrid could have not reacted at all and would still be unharmed.

It shouldn’t intrigue her. Arrows target her frequently in the skies, after all, in the hopes that a direct hit will send her plummeting back to the ground. It isn’t the first arrow she’s dodged, nor will it be the last―not in a battle where she fights from the skies, darting in and out of enemy ranks as a constant, unpredictable threat.

And yet, and _yet_.

And yet there’s something about that arrow that pulls on Ingrid’s subconscious like an old memory resurfacing; something that compels her to look back over the bloody battlefield that is Gronder, searching for its source.

Perhaps it’s fate. Perhaps this was predetermined. Perhaps they’ve been tied together by the red string of fate, and it’s been reeling them in closer and closer until they’re forced to stand in front of each other again. Ingrid doesn’t believe in such things, but she has no other explanation as to why the flash of orange hair stands out amongst the chaos.

She has no other explanation as to why she can to make out Leonie’s figure on the outskirts of the battle, despite the tumult of Gronder.

Leonie’s seated on her horse―she still has Amira, Ingrid realises, even years later―and her bow is raised, but empty. It’s still pointed at Ingrid.

It was Leonie who fired that last arrow. It was Leonie who missed.

Leonie never misses.

Ingrid’s practiced with her enough to know _that_ much―they’d spent hours together in the training grounds, after all, their dedication matched only by Felix and Petra. They’d spar with their lances, and then Leonie would shoot endless bullseyes while Ingrid went through sword forms. Those were simpler times, coloured in golden hues of the sun, when their biggest problems revolved around the fact they were in different classes, and that the dining hall ran out of Gronder meat skewers before they finished training.

(“ _Really_ ,” Leonie had huffed, staring at her plate of always-left-until last, far-from-appetising fish skewers, “ _We’re_ the ones putting in effort. _We_ should be the ones getting the good stuff, not the leftovers!”

Ingrid had agreed, but had mostly been grateful to have food on her plate.)

Those were the days before Edelgard attacked Garreg Mach, and they were forced to go their separate ways.

Now, they’re at war.

Now, they’re on opposite sides of the battlefield.

Ingrid grabs one of the javelins attached to her saddle and urges Odette onward. Leonie’s eyes narrow and she tries to pull Amira out of Ingrid’s way. But, on Odette, Ingrid is swifter: she outmanoeuvres Leonie and hurls a javelin her way. Leonie’s eyes widen as the javelin misses by a hair’s breadth, landing harmlessly in the ground behind her.

Ingrid never misses, either.

Ingrid loops Odette around and, pulling Lúin out as she does so, she faces Leonie for the first time in five years.

The din of battle becomes nothing more than background noise; the soldiers as secondary as background characters in a novel in which Leonie is the protagonist, the hero who rises above her less-than-fortunate circumstances to slay evil and save to world. Ingrid wonders who she’d be, in Leonie’s story. Her rival? Her fated enemy?

A friend-turned-traitor she’d once cherished dearly and was forced to kill, but struggled to?

Ingrid knows how _Leonie_ would be portrayed in a story focused around _her_ : she’d be the latter, the friend who became an enemy, one who must be struck down. In a knight’s tale, the hero is always expected to kill without hesitation. Perhaps there’s some brief lamentation of their past, some fleeting regret that things turned out this way: but the knight, stalwart and chivalrous to the last, will drive their weapon into their once-friend-now-enemy’s heart with barely a second’s pause.

The stories make it sound so simple, so _easy_. Yet Ingrid now looks at Leonie, and wonders how the writers ever thought it accurate. She doesn’t want to kill Leonie, she realises, and the newfound knowledge sits heavily, coldly, in her bones. Merely pointing her lance at her feels wrong.

She’d rather not dwell on such thoughts.

Ingrid tightens her grip on Lúin and sits taller in her saddle.

“Leonie,” she says, proud of the way her voice remains so steady. “It’s been a while.”

Leonie hums. “So it has.” She nods towards Ingrid. “You grew out your hair.”

Ingrid looks to where her hair once was. “It was getting in the way when I fought,” she says, and proceeds to curse herself under her breath. She’s a _knight_ , for Sothis’s sake, and has been fighting a war for five years. She shouldn’t allow herself to be distracted by such silly, inconsequential thoughts. She knows better.

“Well, it looks good short. Really.” Leonie smiles. It’s a small smile, yes, but a true smile all the same―one made in the middle of a war, no less. That’s as rare as flowers blooming in a Faerghus winter, and all the more special for it. “It really suits you, Ingrid.”

Ingrid stomach swoops.

“Thanks,” she says brusquely. “Why’d you grow yours out?”

She scolds herself for continuing the conversation. But, somehow―she can’t help it. Even with their weapons drawn, even with Leonie astride Amira and Ingrid mounted on Odette, it feels so much like their old training sessions together that Ingrid has to keep reminding herself to keep up her guard. She forgets more than she remembers, too.

When her focus is on Leonie, it’s so easy to forget about walls and battles, and return to a time that was far less gruelling, and far more enjoyable.

Leonie shrugs. “Couldn’t be bothered. Didn’t have time. A combination of the two.”

“I’m not surprised. I’ve heard the many stories of your mercenary jobs.” Ingrid tilts her head, a wry smirk on her lips. “Is it true that you once travelled from Derdriu to Faerghus in the span of a day?”

Leonie laughs. “Unfortuanately, no. I’d _love_ to lay claim to that, but even I’m not that good. But what about you? Did you really defend Galatea’s borders from Cornelia’s army single-handed?”

“Almost. At least or two people _did_ have to pitch in.”

Leonie shakes her head. “You really have become the knight you dreamed of, haven’t you?” she muses. Something warm glows in her eyes, something like a mild spring sun. “I’m proud of you, Ingrid.”

Something warm spreads through Ingrid’s chest. They’re in the middle of a war, restricted to rations and small, cold meals of simple ingredients, and yet Ingrid feels like she’s just downed a plate of her favourite sweet buns, fresh and gooey and still warm out of the oven. Her heart savours the feeling, willing to forget its suffering, willing to pretend everything is fine just to linger on this taste for a fleeting second longer.

“I thank you.” Ingrid clears her throat. “You haven’t done to badly yourself, becoming the successful and well-known mercenary you always wished for. I’m happy for you.”

Leonie grins. “Thanks.” A sigh passes her lips. “We’ve taken such different paths, haven’t we? But, somehow, they’ve both led us back here.”

“Indeed. It must be fate.”

Leonie nods. “Surely. Too bad it’s as enemies.” All of the light drains from her eyes. She cocks her head, raising her eyebrow as she does so―an action, Ingrid knows, that always pre-empts a challenge. “So, most chivalrous of knights, I have to ask. Aren’t you going to raise your lance at me?”

Ingrid raises an eyebrow at Leonie in turn. “Aren’t you going to draw your bow, most peerless of mercenaries?”

Leonie’s eyes flick briefly down to her bow―which still remains unstrung―but otherwise makes no response. Ingrid doesn’t make one, either.

The atmosphere between them changes. What was once warm and inviting is now distant, like old memories returning to the back of their minds as their consciousness solidifies once more in the harshness of their present: a reality where this is not the reunion they’ve hoped for, but a battlefield where they must fight on opposite sides.

It was nice to escape, just for a little while, to allow her heart to forget the pain and weariness dragging it down, to feast on a sensation that was much more pleasant―but Ingrid cannot neglect her duty. She cannot turn a blind eye to what’s happening behind her, just because she feels so much more at ease with Leonie than she does in her army.

And she can’t ignore the other fact so lightly woven into their reality, one she’s been trying to ignore ever since she dodged Leonie’s arrow. She doesn’t need to ask Leonie to know that she’s realised the same thing, too: that, from the moment they both missed, they admitted that they’re unable to kill each other. They can’t even contemplate the idea.

Ingrid’s father wants to promise her to a lord, but she’s a warrior first, a knight at heart. She’s handed her duties and her orders, and she fulfils them to the very last instruction.

But, looking at Leonie, suddenly all of her knightly vows are forfeit.

Leonie is a mercenary. Over the years, Ingrid knows, she’s been hired to kill, to guard, to escort. Ingrid knows that Leonie isn’t only here out of loyalty and devotion to Claude, and that her livelihood depends on how well she completes her jobs.

And yet, she still hesitates.

Individually, they’re bound by the opposing duties, their different oaths―and yet together, they’re bound by something else, something that transcends such things. They’re bound by their bonds, their days at the training grounds, by the day Ingrid swooped in on Odette to save Leonie from an incoming, too-fast assassin, and the time Leonie took down an archer before they could hit Ingrid out of the air. They’re bound by the many times they’ve saved each other, emotionally and physically, over and over again; by the long evenings after hours, quietly confiding their worst fears in the other; by the hopeful promise they made to reunite soon before the war made fulfilling it impossible.

Ingrid can only imagine feeling this same hesitation, this same heartache, if she were forced to turn her blade on her childhood friends.

It leaves her feeling uneasy, as though it’s her first battle.

Perhaps it is. Perhaps this is her first true battle against her heart. Ingrid’s grip on Lúin loosens.

“Seems we’re at a stalemate,” she observes.

Leonie nods. “It seems so.” She lets her bow hang at her side, shoulders slumping, and manages a tired smile. From Leonie, that’s a greater declaration of defeat than any words could possibly be. “I can’t kill you, Ingrid. But I won’t fight for the Kingdom.”

“My duty to my king won’t allow me to join the Alliance, either.”

They don’t need to say any more than that.

Leonie is the only person―outside of Sylvain and Felix, that is―who Ingrid can claim to understand in any great depth. Sometimes, she thinks she understands Leonie better than she understands her childhood friends. Leonie gets her in a way no one else ever has, and Ingrid is open around her in a way she isn’t with anyone else. Even years later, there’s no need for any words between them.

Ingrid looks back over the battlefield. They’ve been left behind by now as the three armies converge in the centre, fighting ruthlessly for dominance and control. She makes out Dimitri in the thick of it, moving quickly and furiously through Alliance and Imperial ranks alike. She spots Claude darting over the battlefield, raining arrows on unsuspecting masses with Failnaught. She can see Edelgard, decked in red, cleaving her way through enemy lines. Byleth’s green head cuts through the chaos, directing their allies and outmanoeuvring their foes. Ingrid hears the screams, sees the bodies fall, and watches soldiers step over corpses of friends and foes alike.

It’s a bloodbath, a massacre. She’s needed there; her king requires her presence. Sylvain, Felix, her old classmates, the army full of nameless soldiers she’ll likely never know―they all need her, too. Ingrid won’t forgive herself if she delays any longer.

Leonie, too, watches the battle rage on. Ingrid notices the hard line of Leonie’s mouth, and the deep crease between her furrowed brows.

“I must rejoin the fight,” she says, and somehow knows that she’s taking Leonie’s words right out of her mouth. “Neither of us can afford to tarry for much longer.”

Leonie nods. It’s a sharp, hard movement. “Agreed. I won’t be satisfied with myself if I continue to neglect my job.”

And yet, despite that, they still freeze. Ingrid glances back to the battle once more. It’s unlikely that anyone has noticed their prolonged absence considering the utter chaos of the three-way battle that’s left them behind, but still.

“We never saw each other,” Leonie says.

Ingrid nods. It’s as good a start as any. “Right. Odette took a stray arrow, and I had to yank it out before it caused too much damage to her wings. Amira was spooked.”

Leonie’s mouth falls open.

“Hey, no one’s going to believe _that_!” she exclaims. She pats Amira’s side, then narrows her eyes and looks haughtily at Odette as though a fly she’s about to swat out of the air. “You know Amira, she’s as tough as they come. If anything, it would be _Odette_ who was spooked. She’s far quicker to react to anything.”

Ingrid snorts.

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes, “She took a nasty hit defending you from a lance you were too slow to react to. You’ll have to fake an injury, though.” The laughter dies from her lips and her face sets into a harder expression, eyebrows narrowed and her lips pinched. “But seriously, Leonie. Take care. Don’t die on me out there.”

 _I don’t want to think of a world without you_.

The spark vanishes from Leonie’s eyes and is replaced by embers; small fires, stubbornly continuing to burn on despite how difficult it is to do so. Her face hardens and she sits taller, stowing her bow in favour for her lance. A weapon far better suited for close quarters.

“You too, Ingrid,” she says. Firmly. Businesslike. All trace of warmth gone. “You too.”

Ingrid nods curtly―the last response she’ll give Leonie―and wheels Odette back around to the battle. She brandishes her lance and urges Odette onward, joining the fray once more.

For the rest of the battle, she doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the flow of time is revealed to you, and you alone. what shall you do?
> 
> azure moon: [it's lonely here; won't you stay awhile?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285714/chapters/53223646)
> 
> verdant wind: [not a knight, but a mercenary in shining armour](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285714/chapters/53223766)
> 
> feel free to follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/astrasfelix) of you love leongrid/girls as much as i do!!!!!


	2. it's lonely here; won't you stay awhile?

**PATH ONE: AZURE MOON**

**IT’S LONELY HERE;  
WON’T YOU STAY AWHILE?**

Ingrid steps through the blood-strewn fields of Gronder, her right hand resting tightly on the hilt of her sword. She can feel the decorative hilt digging into her palm, aching and throbbing, but she presses on, resolute even in pain. Even in the face of death. The death of soldiers, of friends, of foes―

Of Rodrigue.

For Rodrigue Achill Fraldarius, the Shield of Faerghus, Duke Fraldarius and formerly Ingrid’s future father-in-law, is dead.

Ingrid doesn’t know when it happened, or how, or why. All she knows is that she wasn’t there to see it, and neither was _Felix_ ―in fact, the only ones present had been Dimitri and Byleth. She knows this, at least, because she’d stumbled onto the scene at the same time as Sylvain and Felix. She’d stood there, frozen still, as Sylvain gripped Felix’s shoulder and led him away, as Byleth rested their hand on Dimitri’s shoulder, as Dimitri shrugged it off and stormed away, Byleth chasing after him.

And all Ingrid had done was watch it unfold, like a vase was falling and she was too far away to do anything but watch the pieces hit the ground and shatter into a thousand tiny, little pieces. Even now, as she walks away, she’s still treading on fragments of broken glass: pieces, _people_ , people who were once whole, now cut open and scarred and without breath in their lungs.

So much destruction. So much death. So much loss, to both people whose names she’ll never know, and to people she was once close to. She should be used to it―she’s been exposed to heavy grief from the tender age of thirteen, and has now lived through five years of constant war.

Something else she’s learned, however, is that death hit harder when it happens to someone you know. There is no way to prepare yourself to the way each loss chips away at a piece of your heart, whittling it down over and over again until there’s barely anything left, until the pain is nothing more than a dull, numb sensation buried deep in your chest. Until you’ve lost so much you can barely feel anything at all.

She thinks of Glenn, his body so broken that they’d only been able to bring back pieces of his armour; of Dimitri, after his supposed execution; of Dedue, after his supposed sacrifice; of Rodrigue, his body starting to grow cold just when they thought the immediate danger had passed.

She thinks of Leonie, who she hasn’t seen since they parted ways to rejoin their separate, opposing armies. Leonie, who she hadn’t seen among the retreating Alliance soldiers. Leonie, who could be dead without Ingrid ever knowing, or bleeding out on the field without any medical attention. 

The Alliance had retreated when Claude had, but not everyone had escaped unharmed. Raphael, the sweet boy whom she’d once scolded for getting gravy all over the floor, had fallen to an arrow in his chest while Ignatz, the boy so much like herself, being forced on one path while desperately wishing to pursue another, had taken a wound to his stomach. His talent, the one he had so wanted to share with the world, will now fade into distant memory without ever receiving the attention it deserved. Ingrid has no way of knowing which side cut them down, Kingdom or Empire―only that they’re now gone.

And here Ingrid is, trekking through Gronder, stepping gingerly over a field of bodies like scattered marbles. Her heart beats erratically in her chest as she tries to spot a flash of orange hair, while praying to Sothis that Leonie hasn’t joined her fallen classmates. Her fallen friends.

Ingrid knows it’s selfish, trying to find someone who isn’t even on the Kingdom’s side, but _still_. She doesn’t want to lose anyone again. Not yet. The war has taken too much from them already without one of their last remaining classmates, too.

So, she searches. Gronder Field is large, but her determination is greater: it places one foot after the other after the other. Occasionally she spots soldiers who are near death and can call healers over, but otherwise can’t do anything but press on. She never learned faith magic, after all.

It could be seconds later, or minutes or even hours―Ingrid has no way of telling―but, finally. There’s the flash of orange hair she’s searching for, and the equally orange clothes. She’s a figure in the distance, but Ingrid’s eyesight is good enough to tell she’s propped up against a tree.

“Leonie,” Ingrid breathes.

She tears over the field.

The sight becomes worse the closer Ingrid gets. Leonie leans against a tree, the side of her face caked in blood. Her face is as white as a sheet and twisted in pain, her hands gripping what has to be a wound at her side. Somehow, miraculously, Amira’s still alive―the horse stands by Leonie, loyal to the last.

Leonie forces her eyes open as Ingrid’s footsteps come nearer, a resigned look to them that makes Ingrid’s heart fall. She knows that look, has seen it in countless soldiers―the look of someone who’s not just prepared for death, but expecting it. Those tired widen when they spot Ingrid, and the dread fades from them, ever so slightly.

“Ingrid?” Leonie rasps, as Ingrid drops to her knees beside her. She tries to push herself into a higher sitting position. “Is that you?”

Ingrid puts a firm hand on Leonie’s shoulder, halting her movement.

“It’s me,” she reassures. “It’s fine.” Her eyes scan Leonie’s body, taking in the tears to her clothes, the bruises on her knees, and the copious amount of blood on her fingers. “Leonie, what _happened_?”

“What we joked about earlier. Several archers came for Amira at once. She got spooked, I fell off, hit my head, became dizzy, and was stabbed because of it.” Leonie throws her head back against the trunk with a dull _thud_ , laughing weakly. “What a way spectacular way to go out, huh? Captain Jeralt’s probably rolling in his grave in shame.”

Ingrid’s heart clenches.

“Don’t say that,” she snaps, with the kind of heat she usually reserves for Sylvain, “You’re going to make it. Leonie, let me look at your wound. _Now_.”

Leonie grimaces but complies, lifting her hands and peeling back her shirt. Ingrid sucks in a breath between her teeth.

Ingrid doesn’t know much about white magic or anatomy, but she’s seen enough battles and wounds to know that Leonie’s missed death by only a couple of inches. Even still, the skin and fabric around the open skin is coated in a heavy, warm patch of blood. No wonder her fingers are so bloodstained.

Ingrid’s hand remains steady as she presses it against the wound, staunching the flow of blood.

“Goddess,” she breathes, as she presses harder against the wound. Leonie clenches her teeth. “Was there no healer that could help you?”

Leonie shakes her head, a sheen of sweat coating her face. “Marianne didn’t show,” she whispers, “And all of the other healers fled after Claude was pulled from the field.”

Ingrid’s stomach falls through the floor.

“Saints,” she mutters, and runs her free, blood-streaked hand through her hair. She doesn’t care. She’s covered in enough dirt and grime for her to care about a little more blood, _especially_ when it’s steadily continuing to flow out of Leonie like a riverbed going dry. “I’m going to find Mercedes. Stay there.”

“Wait, _Ingrid_ ―”

Leonie coughs, but Ingrid is already on her feet and sprinting back to command, cursing herself not bringing Odette (she’d been afraid that she wouldn’t be able to spot Leonie from the skies). Ingrid isn’t good enough a physician to help Leonie, and carrying her back to Mercedes will be delicate, slow work that costs time, time that Leonie possibly doesn’t have.

Perhaps Ingrid’s blowing things out of proportion. Perhaps she doesn’t need to work herself into a frenzy like this. But she also doesn’t think that she can survive another loss as big and gut-wrenching as Rodrigue’s, who’d always treated her so kindly―even when she was no longer going to be married into his family. She can’t lose Leonie, too, the girl who is perhaps her truest friend, who understands her without Ingrid needing to speak and in ways that Sylvain and Felix never truly will, who loves the same foods she does, who was the first girl in Ingrid’s life to smile and offer to train with _weapons_ , not magic. The mere thought of Leonie disappearing from her life like a snuffed-out flame―bright and burning but so easily reduced to naught but ashes and memory―is too much to bear.

Fortunately, Mercedes is easy to find. She’s in the makeshift healing tents they set up after ever battle, and is finishing tending to burn wounds from a fire spell on Annette’s arm.

“Mercedes,” Ingrid gasps, as Annette hops off her stool, “Leonie needs your help.” She’s out of the door again before Mercedes can so much as ask about what’s going on.

Mercedes’ brow furrows, but follows as Ingrid explains. By the time she’s finished, Mercedes’ face has turned hard and she’s hiked up her skirts. “Quickly, Ingrid,” she directs, her usually soft voice hardened too business-like tones.

Ingrid nods once and quickens her pace.

Mercedes barely knows Leonie, having run into her at Garreg Mach only rarely. That’s to be expected, perhaps: they were in different houses, and while Leonie spent most of her days training, Mercedes had hated exerting herself in the slightest. And yet she now runs after Ingrid as though they were the closest of friends.

A part of Ingrid wonders if this desperation comes from Mercedes’ desire to help everyone, while the other guesses that maybe they’re simply all so tired of this war, of the constant death and destruction that follows them every way they turn, of killing people they’d once known. Perhaps that exhaustion alone is enough to send Mercedes sprinting towards a mere acquaintance. 

Leonie hasn’t moved from her tree, and Amira hasn’t budged from Leonie’s side. Mercedes rolls up her sleeves and hands Leonie an elixir.

“Drink this,” she instructs, as brusquely as is possible for Mercedes, then presses her already-bloodstained hands against Leonie’s wound. The white glow of faith magic surrounds her hands as she closes her eyes, directing all of her attention to stitching Leonie’s skin back together.

Leonie drains her elixir in one gulp and turns to Ingrid, a frown on her face.

“Why?” she asks, as Mercedes works her magic, “Why are you helping me? I’m the Kingdom’s enemy. You should leave me.”

And Ingrid freezes, because Leonie speaks the truth.

The reality is this: as a knight, someone loyal to only her King, her Kingdom, and their safety, Ingrid should turn her back on Leonie. She shouldn’t have sought her out to begin with, much less be healing her now. Ingrid should focus on her people, her classmates, her _King_ , the people she is sworn to serve. As much as she loves Leonie, Leonie is not one of those people.

And yet, even as Ingrid is a knight, she’s come to realise that first and foremost, before anything else, she’s human. If she were a knight and nothing more, she would’ve killed Leonie when they first saw each other on Gronder Field. But she feels. She bleeds, she panics, she cares, and she fights not just because she’s ordered to, but because she _wants_ to. Because she feels the suffering of her people and the soldiers around her, and wants to protect as many of them as she can.

And that human, the soul within the vessel that is Ingrid Brandl Galatea, simply cannot abandon her friends.

She looks at Leonie dead in the eye.

“You may be my enemy,” she says, “But you are also my friend. And I’m never going to leave you behind.”

.

.

.

The entire Kingdom army may be occupying Garreg Mach, but the second floor is quiet and devoid of people. Perhaps that’s to be expected, Ingrid reflects, tightly gripping her tray of food as she climbs the final stairs. The battle at Gronder was a week ago, but the wound is still fresh and barely scabbed over, prone to bleeding if strained. It’s as much as they can do to get a full war room―many are still cooped up in their rooms, processing their grief.

Fives years ago, Ingrid had kicked down Bernadetta’s door to help her feel better. But now she’s the one advising that the soldiers be left to their own devices for now. Everyone grieves differently, she’s learned, and everyone has different needs. They can’t expect their soldiers to bounce back so quickly.

Manuela’s exiting the infirmary when Ingrid approaches, and nods approvingly at the food.

“Oh, excellent,” she says. “She’s starting to work up an appetite again. That’ll be good for her.”

Ingrid’s stomach twists. “Leonie. How is she?”

“She’s doing well. Mercedes is a fine healer.” Manuela’s eyes twinkle. “It’s like I’m not even needed around here―and I suspect she’ll feel even better once she sees _you_!”

It’s still spring, not quite yet summer, and yet Ingrid’s cheeks heat so much that she feels like she’s standing directly in the summer sun without any shade. She hasn’t missed her long hair until now; her chin-length locks do nothing to hide her red face, even as she ducks her head.

“I should go; I’m sure that Leonie is hungry,” she stammers, much to Manuela’s laughter.

Ingrid slips into the infirmary and closes the door behind her, silencing Manuela’s amused snorts. She rests her head against the door, allowing the cool wood to calm her, breathing heavily in and out until her body functions as per normal. With a final deep breath, she turns to face Leonie.

Leonie lounges back on her infirmary bed, hair pulled back into its usual loose ponytail. Her face has regained most of its colour in the week since Gronder, and she even has a healthy flush to her cheeks. A book rests by her leg, propped open between two pages. Ingrid bites her lip. If Leonie had just set that aside, it’s entirely possible that she’d watched Ingrid regain her composure at the door like a lovesick teenager.

Goddess, if Sylvain could see her now, he wouldn’t let her hear the end of it.

Leonie yawns and stretches, an action that drags her simple shirt up. Ingrid can just make out the gauze still wrapped around her waist.

“Manuela hasn’t changed,” Leonie muses. “Not in the slightest. Nor has this room, actually.” She pauses and glances around it. Leonie isn’t a hard-faced person, not like Felix is, but something in her expression still softens when she looks out of the window, to the view they’d all stared at when they got training injuries healed. “I didn’t think I’d ever end up back in these beds but―this is nice. Not being wounded,” she pulls a face, “ _That_ sucks, but being _here_. Garreg Mach. Didn’t realise how much I missed the place.”

Ingrid smiles. “We felt like that too, settling back here. It’s in so much disrepair, but it still feels the same. Like these past five years haven’t happened.”

The war’s passed in an exhausted haze of administration, hunger and battles, blurring together until time had no meaning; Ingrid could very much believe they left the monastery only yesterday. The fact that the dining hall still serves the same dishes doesn’t help (even it _does_ make it easier to pick meals Leonie will enjoy eating).

Ingrid walks to Leonie’s bedside and sets the tray on her lap.

“There were Gronder meat skewers today,” she informs Leonie, pulling a seat over and setting herself down, “But I also grabbed some of that vegetable stir-fry. You’ll need your veggies if you want to recover.”

Leonie’s stomach growls. “Thanks, Ingrid. I’m glad I have the appetite for all of this.” She picks up a skewer and brings it to her lips, but hesitates as she’s about to take a bite. She lowers the skewer and holds it just below her chin. “It _is_ fine for me to eat this, right?”

Ingrid frowns. “Of course it is. Why would you think otherwise?”

“I’m not part of your army. I’m from the Alliance. Is it really okay for you to waste your resources on me?”

 _It’s not a waste_ , Ingrid wants to say instantly, _not when it’s you_. But she also knows those four words alone won’t work on Leonie. Leonie hates waste as much as Ingrid does, but she also hates being _part_ of that waste. Not that she ever has been.

Not that she ever will be.

Ingrid leans over and pushes the tray closer to Leonie.

“I’ve told you before, Leonie,” she says, ensuring that every word is spoken precisely, “You’re my friend. And you’re Felix’s, and Bernadetta’s, and you know Lysithea joined us after that battle, too. We’re not going to throw you out. That’s the last thing we want to do.”

Leonie blinks. “Oh.”

She stares at her meat skewer for a moment longer, as though that will provide her all the answers she needs, and then she shrugs and tears into the meat.

“Send my thanks to everyone, then,” she says, around a mouthful of food.

Ingrid chuckles. “I will.”

She remains quiet as Leonie attacks her food, her hands clasped tightly in her lap so she won’t succumb to temptation and claim one of those mouth-watering skewers as her own―Leonie needs the food far more than she does. She gazes out of the window instead. If she looks closely enough, Ingrid can make out Byleth and Dimitri’s figures walk across the grounds, heads bent closely together, likely deep in discussion about plans to retake Fhirdiad.

Ingrid smiles. It’s happening slowly and all at once, Dimitri returning to them: he’s still closed off and reserved, but has thrown himself into the preparations for their attack as though desperate to prove himself. At least he’s more reasonable than he was, or Leonie wouldn’t getting healed now. He’d been quiet at Byleth’s side when Ingrid and Mercedes led Leonie back to the main army, and remained so when Byleth said, “Make space for her on one of the wagons. We have ample resources to spare.” 

(Everyone knows that Byleth has a weak spot for their students―even though they’d been able to convince Lorenz to their side, they’d had to kill Ferdinand. No one had missed the grief in their eyes when they turned away from his body.

And after Gronder, they’d had to face several more.)

 _Ample resources_ is an exaggeration, but no one had complained when she and Mercedes lifted Leonie beside their other injured soldiers. Sylvain had even left Felix’s side for a brief moment to help them.

Ingrid isn’t the only one who visits Leonie, but she’s the one who stays the longest. Sometimes she’ll walk in to find Bernadetta perched on the edge of her seat and sewing, or Mercedes will stop by to perform a check-up―but every moment Ingrid isn’t training, eating or in war meetings, she’s by Leonie’s side. She usually stays there until her eyes are heavy and she’s falling asleep in her seat.

Ingrid hasn’t realised just how much she’s missed Leonie until now, until they’re seated beside each other and simply talking. She’s still broken by the war, but she’s beginning to feel a little bit whole again.

“I just came back from a war meeting,” Ingrid says, once Leonie has finished her meal, “And I spoke to the professor and His Highness about options for you.”

Leonie snaps to attention like Ingrid is a general calling for the readiness of her troops. She pushes her tray away and sits taller in bed, her gaze heavy and her lips pressed into a hard, white line. Ingrid’s heart squeezes; already, Leonie looks to be on the defensive.

But what other reaction is expected, when they’re living through a long, hard war, and are still unaware of what even tomorrow may bring?

Ingrid leans over and rests her hand over Leonie’s.

“Please, relax,” she says. “You’re free to do as you please. If you wish it, His Highness and the professor are more than happy for you to join our ranks like Lysithea. But, if you want to leave and return to life as a mercenary, you can do that as well. We’re not going to dictate your choices here―well, apart from Manuela while you’re resting in this bed.”

That, at least, earns a small chuckle out of Leonie, even if it doesn’t completely rid the tension from her body.

“It’s that easy?” she probes. “You don’t want to imprison and question me as a possible spy?”

“You’re _many_ things, Leonie, but a spy is not one of them.”

Leonie snorts. “Ha. I guess that’s true.” She tilts her head. “Say I join you. I probably killed a lot of Kingdom soldiers at Gronder. Everyone knows I was the enemy. Will they be as welcoming to me as the professor? Will fighting for you mean I’m betraying the Alliance?”

“We have no intention of invading the Alliance,” Ingrid reassures her, “Only of defeating the Empire. The Alliance and the Kingdom’s goals are aligned in that regard. And we all took so many lives in that battle―and even before that.” Ingrid lowers her eyes and tightens her hold on Leonie’s hand. “Your hands aren’t any more stained than ours are.”

Leonie looks down, her fingers tracing the edge of the tray. Her brow is furrowed in the way it always it when she’s presented with a difficult problem, one she can’t simply fight her way out of or reread until it makes sense.

The silence is suffocating. Ingrid starts to wonder if the patterns that Leonie is tracing is some sort of code.

“Let me think about it, okay?” Leonie concedes, massaging her temple. “This isn’t the sort of decision I can make overnight.”

Ingrid does her best to hide her exhale of relief. “Of course,” she says. “Take all the time you need.” Ingrid can give her that much, at least. She shuffles over to the edge of her chair. “Do you want me to go?”

She starts to stand, only for Leonie to tug Ingrid back and reposition their hands, so she’s holding on to Ingrid instead of the other way around. “Stay. It’s boring on my own.”

Leonie pushes the book by her side with her free hand, which falls back onto its cover and shuts. Leonie was using no bookmark, so the page she was at is now lost. Ingrid smiles and picks it up, checking the pages for any creases before she sets it gently aside.

“Okay,” she says. She moves her chair closer to the side of Leonie’s bed and settles herself into a more comfortable position. “I’ll stay.”

Three days later, Manuela declares Leonie healthy enough to leave. Ingrid isn’t there for it: she’s at the training grounds, training lance in hand as she goes over her basic forms, over and over so they remain instinctual and automatic in her muscles, her bones, so her body will know how to respond in battle even if her brain won’t. She’s so focused on her routine that she doesn’t notice anyone else approaching until her lance meets another one mid swing, and she looks up to see Leonie wielding both it and a grin on her face.

“I’m staying,” she says, shrugging even as she moves to strike Ingrid. Ingrid parries it quickly. “I have a debt to pay to you, to Mercedes, to the professor and to Dimitri, and that’s something I just can’t ignore. Not to mention that _someone_ needs to help you keep your idiot friends in line and take all of that burden off of your shoulders.” Leonie winks. “It may as well be me.”

Ingrid stares at Leonie for so long that she’s a fraction too late to block the next attack properly: it deflects off her lance, but also sends her staggering back. When she’s recovered, breathless and once more balanced on her two feet, she looks at Leonie and smiles.

“Thank you,” she says. “I’m glad.”

Leonie doesn’t say anything, but the look on her face tells Ingrid more than enough.

It tells her that she feels the same.

.

.

.

Falling out of old habits is hard, even if you’ve just won a war.

Ingrid _knows_ that the Empire is defeated and that Emperor Edelgard is dead, but her body is still catching up to that idea. She still eats like it’s possible their grain fields will be razed the next day; she still tosses and turns at night and wakes up with the first rays of sun.

Maybe her body has a point; Fodlan isn’t going to calm down just because Edelgard has fallen. There will be bandits trying to take advantage of the confusion, Empire loyalists willing to do anything they can to strike back, and there will almost certainly be attempts on Dimitri’s life. Ingrid cannot entertain the idea of relaxing or indulging in laziness if she is going to be Dimitri’s knight―she needs to be ready, to matter the occasion.

It’s how she finds herself at the training grounds before the sun has risen, a week after the end of the war and three days after their army stopped at Garreg Mach one last time to recover before moving on. She expects to be the only one there, but is pleasantly surprised to see Leonie there too, stretching and moving her body as a warm up before training begins.

Leonie waves as the doors shut behind Ingrid. “Morning, Ingrid. What brings you here?”

“Couldn’t sleep. You?”

“The same.”

Ingrid nods and stands in front of Leonie, bending her body into the same stretch. Her muscles protest, suffering their usual early morning stiffness, but that’s soon fixed. She and Leonie agree simultaneously to finish stretching with no other cue than a nod, and they pick up their training lances and dive into their usual routine.

Their pattern is a familiar one, one that started during their academy days, then was dusted and picked back up once Leonie decided to assist with the final push of the Kingdom’s war effort. They’d trained together before dawn six days out of seven, switching between sparring and individual skill development, exchanging quips or offering advice, pushing each other to continue growing. They’d eaten together, worked in the stables together, bent over war maps and talked strategy together; and when Dimitri accepted Claude’s request for aid, Ingrid had convinced the room to listen to Leonie and Lysithea to plan their next movements.

And they continue this pattern now, today, in a time of peace. Ingrid’s breaths are now laboured and her lungs are burning, yet she can’t wipe the smile from her face. It’s comfortable, it’s familiar, and it puts Ingrid at greater ease than any mediation. They don’t need to speak to understand each other, and can communicate with a single raised eyebrow or tilt of the head; their language one that is unique to them and no one else. Ingrid hasn’t told Leonie her entire lifestory, and yet she feels so intimately known, so intimately _understood_ , that she may as well have―and she may as well be privy to every detail of Leonie’s life, too, considering how attuned she is to the slightest of changes in Leonie’s expressions and mood.

She doesn’t want this to end. She doesn’t want _them_ to end. If Ingrid could freeze time, she’d freeze it right now, before they have to say goodbye.

The sky is pale blue by the time they finish sparring, and vague sounds waft from the direction of the dormitories as the others slowly stumble out of their doors and yawn themselves back to life. They throw down their weapons and collapse of the floor, both of them hot, sweaty, slightly shaky messes. They’ve pushed themselves a little too hard, caught in the thrill of their fight as they were.

It’s something Ingrid usually scolds Felix for, but today she can’t bring herself to regret it. She wants to milk as much time alone with Leonie as she can, before they’re inevitably forced to go their separate ways once again.

“I’m going to miss this,” Leonie muses, between gasps for breath. She closes her eyes and leans her head back. “I almost don’t want to leave.”

“Me too,” Ingrid admits, “But I couldn’t do that.”

Leonie laughs, though the sound is darkened by the slight shadow that passes over her face. “That isn’t surprising. I know _you_ , Ingrid, and I know that isn’t an option for you.” She tilts her head. “So, what are you going to do when you leave? Where can I find you?”

 _Will I ever get to see you again_?

Ingrid clasps her hands together. Try as she might to remain composed, she can’t stop the smile that spreads across her face, just as she can’t stop the sun from rising in the sky. “I’ve been working on that for the past month, actually. When we return to Faerghus, I’m formally renouncing my claim to House Galatea and am moving to Fhirdiad to become one of the royal knights. His Highness has already accepted.”

Leonie gasps. “Ingrid! I’m so happy for you!”

She launches herself at Ingrid, tackling her into a hug that knocks all the breath from Ingrid’s lungs. Ingrid’s face is pressed into the crook of Leonie’s neck; she can both smell and feel the sweat Leonie’s worked up from their training session, but Ingrid only buries her face deeper. She doesn’t care.

Ingrid lasts as long as she can before she pats Leonie awkwardly on the back―the usual signal for surrender in sparring. However, in the context of this hug, it’s a signal Ingrid doesn’t think Leonie will pick up on. “Leonie, please. I can’t breathe.”

“Oh, sorry.” Leonie steps back, but the warmth in her smile conveys every feeling that was poured into her hug. “But you’re _finally_ taking control of your own future! I’m proud of you.”

Ingrid flushes.

“Are you going to become a mercenary again?” she asks, in an attempt to redirect the conversation. If Leonie pays her any more attention, she may just combust on the spot.

Fortunately, Leonie either doesn’t notice the ploy or does and doesn’t comment―Ingrid’s willing to bet on the latter. Leonie knows her too well to be ignorant of such an obvious ploy.

“I will be,” Leonie says with a shrug. “My debt here is paid. I have other things I need to do; I hear there’s a job in Daphnel that will pay a decent sum.”

Ingrid’s heart falls. “So, we’ll be going our separate ways again.”

“It seems so.”

And they’re at those same crossroads, the ones they found themselves at on Gronder Field, for just as they couldn’t join the other’s opposing army back then, they can’t join the other on their journey now. Ingrid can never leave Dimitri, and Leonie can never become a knight. Their paths spread too wide for them to even be able to settle on a compromise.

Ingrid knows this is inevitable, and yet it hits her like a sudden plot twist all the same. She’s been ignoring the signs, and indulged in Leonie’s company for far too long, entertaining impossible fantasies that, perhaps, this steady routine could be theirs for many years to come. But now it’s sprung and the status quo shaken, she’s forced to confront reality and acknowledge the truth: she’s not ready to say goodbye.

She wonders if she ever will be.

Ingrid claps a hand on Leonie’s shoulder. “At least stop by Fhirdiad when you’re near,” she says, and winces at her false cheer. Sylvain would be appalled if he could hear her now, and Felix would scoff and tell her to stop hiding behind false words. _Not like you’re any better_ , she snaps at Imaginary Felix. “I can’t bear the thought of not seeing you for another five years straight.”

Leonie grins. “Will do. My work takes me all over Fόdlan, so I should be able to stop by at least four times every year. But let’s not dwell on that now.” Leonie stretches as she clambers to her feet, and offers Ingrid her hand. “I’m _starving_ , and if _I’m_ starving then you must be ravenous. What do you suppose the dining hall will be doing for breakfast?”

“I don’t mind,” Ingrid says, allowing Leonie to pull her to her feet. She resolutely ignores the tingle that goes down her arm at the contact. She knows that whatever is served today, she’ll enjoy it as long as she can spend one more moment in Leonie’s company.

.

.

.

“Miss Galatea―”

Ingrid raises a brow. Her attendant stiffens, but nonetheless bows lowly. Ingrid wishes he wouldn’t―it feels like a mockery.

“My apologies, _Sir_ Galatea,” he says stiffly, “But I simply _must_ ask. Is it truly a good idea for you to meet a―a _mercenary_ , alone, out _here_? Aren’t you concerned in the _slightest_?”

His voice and his expression are both so sour that they put lemons to shame. Ingrid purses her lips, breathing heavily through her nose. It’s so satisfying to imagine her fist making contact with his face, or at the very least picturing how much further his face will twist under a series of snappy, pointed words.

But, she’s learned, snapping at everyone like they’re Sylvain doesn’t always achieve the best results. It makes some people defensive, argumentative, and achieves the exact opposite result she desires. This man definitely belongs to that category, and she simply cannot be bothered.

So Ingrid forces a smile on her face, one that makes her cheeks ache, and raises a placating hand. 

“Peace, Jakob,” she says, proud of the way her voice remains even. “I have known the Blade Breaker since our academy days, and fought by her side in the war against the Empire. I trust her with my life.”

 _I trust her far more than I do you_ , she thinks but doesn’t say. She doesn’t need to deal with indignant, righteous men today. There are matters far worthier of her time.

Fortunately, Jakob looks rather flustered by her pointed words, all red-faced and caught off guard. He clasps his hand behind his back, as though that and puffing out his chest will do anything to hide his embarrassment. “My apologies, Sir Galatea.”

“Apology accepted, Jakob. Now please, leave me be. The Blade Breaker prefers to meet her clients alone.”

Jakob splutters. Ingrid grimaces, thinking that perhaps she’s going to have to tell him a second time, but he bows again and walks back into the Galatea household with a clipped gait. Ingrid closes her eyes and exhales heavily. Good riddance. She’s going to have a word with her father and brothers about who they hire to work in their household.

Though she _did_ make that last part up. Not to get rid of Jakob (though that’s certainly a bonus), but because it’s been four months since their army parted ways at Garreg Mach, and the most she’s heard about Leonie Pinelli, the Blade Breaker II, has been through whispers and market stories. Every time she hears others talk about Leonie’s adventures, as though they’re privier to her life than Ingrid is, it makes her feel distant. _She_ used to be the one who heard those stories first, in Leonie’s own words―but she’s lost that ever since she lost the ability to send Leonie letters. The other is constantly moving about, after all.

So, when Ingrid sees Leonie in person, she needs it to be alone. She needs to talk with Leonie like they’re still friends instead of two people on opposite ends of a business agreement, to be warmed once more by the sun that’s been hidden behind a constant, looming dark cloud.

A clatter of hooves sounds in the distance. Ingrid’s heart skips a beat and she stands taller, straightening out her knight’s uniform. It’s a simple outfit, the armour designed to prioritize protection, effectiveness and comfort over style. The most decorative part is the blue and silver-trimmed cloak she wears over her shoulders, signifying her rank as Captain of the Blaiddyd Knights.

 _Glenn would be proud_ , she hears people say, as she stands by Dimitri’s side. Once upon a time, the girl who idolised Glenn―and was so _sure_ that she loved him―would beam, thrilled to receive what she considered to be the highest form of praise.

Now, she simply nods. Glenn _would_ be proud, yes, but Ingrid’s starting to care less about what he may or may not think. She’ll always care for Glenn and honour his memory, but now there’s someone whose opinion she values more than anyone else’s.

And that said person rounds the corner of the path leading to the Galatea home, orange hair flying behind her.

“Whoa, Amira!” Leonie exclaims, and slows Amira into a gentle trot. Ingrid doesn’t even attempt to hide her snort. Leonie’s always been wild, as free and unrestrained as the deer that adorned the former Leicester Alliance’s coat of arms, so it doesn’t surprise Ingrid that approaching a noble home doesn’t tame her spirit. She’s always loved that about her.

Ingrid descends the steps as Leonie draws nearer. She jumps off Amira’s saddle even as she’s still moving, a puff of dust rising by her feet as she does so. The grin on her face reaches her eyes, and her eyes sparkle like a wild sea in the middle of summer.

“Ingrid!” she exclaims. She claps Ingrid’s shoulder, then pulls her into a tight hug. The past four months have treated her well; her arms are now all large, strong muscle. Ingrid relaxes―Leonie hasn’t been starving, at least. “It’s great to see you!”

Ingrid squeezes Leonie tightly back. “Do you greet all of your clients this way?”

“Nah. Just you.”

Ingrid is suddenly glad that the day is warm; she can use the heat to explain away the sudden redness of her cheeks.

They stay in each other’s arms for a time that’s far too long to be passed off as merely friendly. Leonie still holds onto Ingrid ‘s shoulders as they part, her eyes darting to Ingrid’s cloak and the armour she wears.

“Look at you!” Leonie crows. “ _Captain_! You deserve it. If Dimitri hadn’t deemed you fit for the role, I’d forgo this job and march to Fhirdiad _myself_ to make him see sense.”

Ingrid raises a brow. “Do I want to know how you’d accomplish that?” she asks dryly, because she knows that no task is too big for Leonie, and she’ll achieve her goal no matter what.

Leonie winks. “Best let it stay secret. You may have to arrest me otherwise.”

Ingrid throws her head back and _laughs_.

It’s been months since she’s laughed this hard, belly-aching and ugly and leaving her gasping for breath. Ingrid loves her job, loves the feeling of her lance in hand, but there are precious little opportunities to indulge in mirth when your king’s life depends on your attentiveness. The last time she allowed herself to laugh this much was when Sylvain arrived in Fhirdiad for her knighting ceremony, about two weeks after she, His Highness, Dedue and Felix had, and had greeted Felix with an enthusiastic kiss―and Felix had become so flustered that he’d accidentally shoved him into a fountain. They’d made quite the pair, the future Margrave Gautier, dipping wet and laughing, his arm slung over the current Duke Fraldarius’s shoulders, his face even redder than it was before. Even _Dimitri_ had chuckled.

Leonie’s only been back in Ingrid’s life for a mere five minutes, and already all of her walls are down. Her smiles come easier, and her laughter rings true. She doesn’t have to be anything but herself in Leonie’s company.

When she recovers, wiping tears from her eyes, it’s to find Leonie staring at her with such an intensity that Ingrid feels like she’s being burned from the inside out. She swallows, and wonders if, perhaps, her cloak is askew.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, very much aware of how her voice cracks. She discreetly tries to adjust the clasp of her cloak, to straighten out the rumples in both her clothes and her composure, even though she knows it’s impossible do so without Leonie noticing.

Leonie’s eyes sharpen, coming back to focus like being pulled from a dream. “No,” she says, quiet in a way that Leonie is never quiet. “Not at all.”

A heartbeat, then several, passes between them. Ingrid clears her throat.

“Well, uh, I suppose we should talk business,” she declares. They’ve lingered on pleasantries for far too long as it is. Her brothers, and Jakob, have surely raised eyebrows by now (her father is likely too preoccupied with his work to notice).

“Oh. Business.” Leonie nods, though it’s a jerky action. “Yes. I suppose we should.”

Ingrid steps aside, motioning to the door. “Would you like to join me for a cup of tea? It’ll be far more comfortable, and I asked Fynn to procure some angelica last time I was here―whether he remembered to is, of course, a different story.” Her brother’s memory has never been one of his strengths.

Leonie smiles. “I’d be honoured. Thanks, Ingrid.”

Ingrid nods and moves toward the door, gesturing for Leonie to follow her. She has to remind herself that her brothers (or worse, Jakob) may be watching so she doesn’t take Leonie’s hand. Even though she’s now a knight, she’s consistently at the mercy of their teasing.

Ingrid’s tense as they walk through the halls of her home. Normally, she’s on edge with others in her home because the other party never fails to mention how much less-off the Galateas are compared to them, and use that to try and hasten a marriage proposal. But now she’s nervous for an entirely different reason, for these are the corridors she ran around in as a child, and these are the walls she was raised in. Her home is a key that unlocks the large, vast chest of her life, including the most valuable and intimate moments, and Leonie is seeing all of it.

It’s nerve-wracking, exposing, but it sends a thrill down Ingrid’s spine as well. She wants to guide Leonie through the treasure trove that is her life, to pick up every memory and show them to her.

She’s nervous, but excited too. She wants Leonie to know everything about her.

Ingrid shuts the door to the sitting room behind them, and motions for Leonie to sit. Jakob, fortunately, is not entirely useless, for there is a pot of tea waiting for them―and yes, Fynn _did_ get her note about the angelica. Ingrid pours the tea herself, offering the first cup to Leonie, who takes it with a simple expression of thanks. Ingrid settles back in a chair with her own cup of tea and stirs it, watching Leonie over its rim. 

She very much aware that she doesn’t need to be in Galatea right now. She’s aware that she doesn’t need to be the one who hires Leonie, and that she doesn’t need to be here now to outline the job to her―her brothers, while they can sometimes be idiots, are more than capable of taking care of that themselves.

And yet, and _yet_.

As soon as she’d heard the report of bandits plaguing Galatea lands, Ingrid had known that Leonie was the only person she trusted with the job, and that she _had_ to be the one to meet her. It had come to her in a flash, and she’d spent her break in her quarters, hastily scrawling out the request

 _We’re good friends_ , she’d written to her brothers, _she’s more likely to be agreeable with me_.

Another lie, one crafted in order to achieve her selfish desires: to see Leonie’s face once again, to hear her voice and just feel her presence. She’s lucky that Dimitri is both her friend and an understanding king, and had allowed her to make the journey to from Fhirdiad to Galatea.

Leonie tilts her head back to sip from her cup. “This is good tea,” she says, smiling. Part of the tea trickles down the corner of her lip. “I can’t believe you still remember my favourite.”

Ingrid brings her own cup to her mouth, as though that can do anything to hide the flush on her cheeks and the small, embarrassed smile on her lips. “As if I could forget.”

Leonie chuckles. She takes another long draught before she settles her cup aside, resting her elbows on her knees as she leans forward. “So, whatever matter of business would require you to hire me here?”

Ingrid rests her tea in her lap. “As you can probably tell, the war took its toll on Galatea.” Leonie would’ve travelled through the lands with her company; she would’ve seen how desolate all of the fields are, despite it being harvest season. “We barely have enough resources, even with the supplies sent to us by His Majesty. With so much to take care of, my brothers haven’t been able to adequately defend the area, and I spend most of my time in Fhirdiad―which has led to a bandit problem.” She looks Leonie in the eye. “I’d like to hire you to help us out until Galatea gets back on its feet.”

Leonie settles into the back of her chair and presses the tips of her fingers together. “Sounds like a long job,” she notes.

Ingrid bites her lip. “I know. I’m sorry, Leonie, but this is the only way Galatea will survive. We’ll pay you handsomely for your time, of course, and your men will receive good food and proper housing―”

“Ingrid, please. Stop that.”

Leonie rises from her chair and fits on the footrest beside Ingrid, resting her hand on top of Ingrid’s. It feels almost exactly the same as it had months ago. “Don’t fret too much about those details―I’m more than happy to help you out. And it may be nice to stick around in one place for a while,” she adds, with a slight tilt of her head.

Ingrid releases a long, deep breath. “Thank you, Leonie. How much do I owe you?”

Leonie presses her lips together, and remains silent for several long, drawn-out seconds before she names her price. Ingrid’s stomach falls.

“Leonie, no,” she protests, vehemently shaking her head. “I can’t let you do that. I know only the bare minimum about mercenaries, but you’re underselling yourself _far_ too much.”

Leonie scoffs. “ _Please_. You’re offering us free food and lodgings, which is a hefty cost in itself. My men will be more than happy with that amount.” Her lips spread into a grin. “And I wish to collect my own payment some other way.”

Ingrid’s heart falters. “How so?”

“Well, I’d like to steal some of your time. At least a cup of tea and a sparring match every week. How does that sound?”

It sounds perfect. Ingrid would love to do nothing more than to drop everything and agree―but, unfortunately, she is a Captain. She has to be practical.

“That’s fine,” she says, as her brain runs through the calculations of days and time. “Yes, I think that’s doable. Felix is staying in Fhirdiad until things smooth over, while his uncle minds Fraldarius lands. He can easily protect His Majesty in my stead.”

It’s funny, leaving that job to Felix, even though he never quite stopped being the Dimitri’s Shield. That job has usually been Dedue’s―but Dedue is now in Duscur, making plans to rebuild. Now the war’s over, her friends are all starting to find their places in the world, even if Ingrid can’t quite shake the idea that something is still missing from hers.

Leonie beams. “Excellent.” She offers her hand. “Here’s to a successful partnership.”

Ingrid takes Leonie’s hand and shakes it, firmer than any of her father’s. “Indeed. I look forward to working with you again, Leonie.”

And if she holds Leonie’s hand a little longer than is strictly professional, if she lingers in the rooms she’s lending Leonie, if Leonie’s mere laughter is enough for Ingrid to stare at her like she’s the only person in the world―well. That’s nobody’s business but hers.

.

.

.

“You’ve been happier than usual these past few weeks, Ingrid.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes. “That’s enough, Emil,” she says pointedly, flicking Mila’s reigns.

Emil grins, his expression something like triumph. “A _ha_! My stern, stalwart baby sister doesn’t deny that the mercenary makes her― _ouch_!”

Her oldest brother winces, rubbing his shoulder. Ingrid shakes out her fist once, twice, three times before she rides on, sparing him only a single, pointed glare over her shoulder.

“The Sylvain Glare,” Emil mutters, cowering despite the armour he wears, as though her glare is made of magic. “Ingrid, that’s _harsh_. What did I do to deserve that?”

“You know what,” she says back in clipped tones, and directs Mila into a slightly faster gait. Emil grumbles behind her, something about how unfair it is to have a younger sister who’s actually captain of the _entire royal guard_ , before he grabs Ilse’s reigns and urges her to catch up with Ingrid.

Ingrid keeps her eyes on the road the entire time, mostly so that Emil isn’t granted the satisfaction of seeing the smile she can’t seem to wipe off her lips, and has barely been able to since Leonie spent her first day at Galatea.

By now, she and Leonie have settled into an easy routine: Ingrid will leave Fhirdiad early Saturday morning, and Leonie will meet her on the borders. They’ll ride to the Galatea home together, then help themselves to mint and angelica tea respectively; Ingrid will gripe about her friends and idiot nobles before excitedly informing Leonie how her knights are progressing, and Leonie will make reports and share some more stories of her mercenary adventures. They’ll then spend the rest of their time riding and sparring, finishing it with a big helping of their favourite meals. On Sunday evening, Ingrid will hug Leonie farewell and return to her city. To her king.

It feels strange, really, and out of place, returning to Galatea without Leonie. It’s like trying to fight with gauntlets while on Odette’s back.

“Where is Leonie, coincidentally?” Ingrid asks, as casual and nonchalant as possible.

She refuses to look behind her, but she can all but _hear_ the wicked, devilish grin on Emil’s face. “Oh, our lovely resident mercenary―no, Ingrid, _please_ , don’t hit me I was _teasing_ ―she went to one of the villages today. She didn’t say why, but it’s probably to clear out some bandits. She’ll be home before long.”

Ingrid tightens her grip on the reigns. _Before long_ is too long. “Is the village far?”

“Not at all.”

Ingrid sets her jaw. “Take me. I’ll wait for her there.”

There’s a glint to Emil’s eye that Ingrid very much doesn’t like. “Of course,” she says―and oh, no, she _definitely_ doesn’t like his tone, either. It’s a good thing for him that he urges Mila into gallop so she doesn’t have the opportunity to hit him.

Ingrid huffs to herself. _Honestly_. Keeping her brother in check is sometimes more exhausting than keeping _both_ Sylvain _and_ Felix from misbehaving.

They keep up a fast pace until they reach the village. Ingrid dismounts Mila and leads her through the houses, frowning all the while. It’s the middle of the day, yet only a few people wander around the streets.

“Where is everyone?” she asks, and Emil merely shrugs. He, too, is frowning.

Ingrid glances around anxiously before she pauses. There’s a sound in the air, something that sounds like voices. She strains her ears, wondering if it was just the wind―but no. The noise grows louder, and that’s definitely human voices, coming from the woods. Ingrid hurries towards them, just in time to see people traipse out of the sparse trees.

The villagers, she dully notes, but they’re like nameless soldiers to her. Her focus instead hones in the orange figure at the centre of them, who still commands authority like a general even off the battlefield. Leonie laughs amongst the cluster the villagers, nudging one with one arm while the other carries a bag of what can only be hunting game.

Ingrid walks over just as Leonie bids the others farewell, separating herself from them to approach Amira. She must hear Ingrid’s footsteps, for she looks up and gives Ingrid a wide grin.

“Ingrid, hey! Perfect timing. Did you know that your hunting practices here are _atrocious_?” Leonie secures her bag to Amira’s back. “I can’t believe you’ve made do for so long.”

Ingrid blinks. “I wasn’t, no. My father never took me hunting.” He’d only reluctantly allowed her to pick up a lance (and _that_ had mostly been because it was a way for her to spend more time with Glenn), but had drawn the line at hunting. Ingrid watches the small group of villagers meander out of the woods―only now does she realise that they, too, are all carrying game. “Wait. Did you take _everyone_ here out hunting?”

Leonie shrugs. “Why not? When I leave, I’ll take all of my skills with me. I thought it would be a better idea to teach them, so they can continue spreading the skills long after I’m gone. It may help your people in the future.”

And, right in that moment, Ingrid forgets that people are watching, that _Emil_ is watching―she forgets them all and pulls Leonie into a hug.

“Thank you, Leonie,” she whispers. “You didn’t have to. You already do enough for us around here.”

Leonie chuckles, her chest rumbling against Ingrid’s body. “You’re right, I didn’t _have_ to. But I wanted to.”

Ingrid doesn’t have any response other than to cling to Leonie a little tighter, and smile when Leonie holds her back. Goddess, she doesn’t want to let go. Leonie _does_ something to her, something that sets her soul alight in a way that not even Glenn had. She wishes there was a way to keep Leonie at her side.

Not that she can. Leonie will never be satisfied giving up her mercenary job, and Ingrid will never ask that of her. It would be like giving up her lance for good.

“Leonie! Leonie, look!”

A small voice pipes up behind them. It’s a girl, barely reaching Ingrid’s waist, red hair pulled into two scrappy braids and dirt smeared over her clothes and freckles. She’s grinning, though, showing the gaps between her teeth, and bouncing on her feet.

Leonie crouches down to be on the girl’s level, smiling widely. “What is it, Sofia?”

The girl―Sofia―holds out her handful of vegetables like she’s presenting His Majesty with only the finest and rarest of jewels. “Look what I grew!” she exclaims, laughing.

“Sofia, that’s amazing!” Leonie gasps. “They look delicious. Have you shown them to your mother?”

“Yeah! She’s very happy!”

“As she should be. You should be proud, having grown so many tasty vegetables.”

Sofia puffs her chest out, positively swelling with pride. Leonie laughs and tousles her hair. “Thank you for showing me, Sofia, but I think it’s time you ran back to your mother. You don’t want her to become worried, do you?” Sofia shakes her head furiously. “Then go. I’ll visit you soon, okay?”

“Okay!” Sofia agrees happily. She waves cheerfully and scampers away, to a woman who can only be her mother. There’s a fond look to Leonie’s eyes as she watches the little girl leave.

“What was that about?” Ingrid asks, offering her hand. Leonie hasn’t made any move to stand.

Leonie accepts Ingrid’s hand, allowing her to be hauled to her feet. “I haven’t just been helping with the hunting, you know,” she says, dusting the dirt off of her knees. “There’s not much to do between hunting bandits, so one day I took to the fields and helped salvage some of the crops.” She shakes her head. “Your agricultural practices are also far out of date. You’ve been farming your lands completely wrong for _decades_ ―no wonder your harvests are so poor. But, hopefully, these changes will start to turn your fortunes around.”

Ingrid’s mouth falls open. “You’ve been teaching people new farming practices too, haven’t you?”

This is a dream. It has to be. No one has ever done so much for Galatea, for her people and her lands―not without asking something in return. There’s no way Leonie is doing all of this for _free_.

But, then again, she’s always been kind. She isn’t generous with her money (that’s something Ingrid can relate to), but her heart knows no bounds―Ingrid still remembers how she’d leave her studies to help Lysithea carry a stack of books, and would excuse herself from sparring to help Bernadetta better aim her bow.

Ingrid shouldn’t be surprised, and yet her chest still feels warms. Leonie smiles.

“Again, I wanted to. And it’s worth it.” Her expression softens and she stares after Sofia. The little girl still holds a handful of her vegetables and is yammering away to her mother, not a care in the world.

It’s a miracle, that Galatea’s children can still be so carefree.

Ingrid shakes her head. “I-I don’t know how to thank you. You’re doing so much for me, for us―I should be paying you more. A lot more.”

Leonie rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. Stop that nonsense. My men don’t help me; this is something I want to do myself.” But then she cups her cheek in her hand, posing in mock thought, though the effect is ruined by her devilish grin. “But, if you _insist_ on repaying me, then I’ll help myself some more of your company, your angelica tea, and those spiced ginger biscuits you provided last time. Those were delicious.”

“Done,” Ingrid says. She hesitates, eying the bag attached to Amira’s saddle, before she blurts, “Would you like to ride back on Mila?”

Her cheeks heat up as she says it. Leonie reaches out, entwining her fingers in Ingrid’s, gentle in a way neither of them are particularly familiar with. It feels like a promise, the seal on a letter before it gets sent.

“Ingrid,” she says. “I’d love to.”

.

.

.

Galatea’s land transform right in front of Ingrid’s eyes.

It’s slow, gradual, and starts with more successful hunts and better-grown crops. But, while their harvests are still meagre, there are fewer dead crops and people’s bellies are a little fuller. And people start _smiling_ more.

They are still struggling, poorer than many regions in Fόdlan, but something has shifted. For the first time in her life, Ingrid feels hope for the future of Galatea. A future that’s independent, and allows it to thrive without marrying its Crested children to the highest bidder.

And it’s all thanks to Leonie. Leonie, who was hired to do one thing but has done so much more. Leonie, whose foremost concern has been money for most of her life, but still finds the time and empathy to help those who need her. Leonie, who has never asked anything of Ingrid other than her time and that she be herself.

Leonie, who has only been in Galatea for a few moons, but already feels like she belongs there, as much a part of Galatea as its oldest tree. Ingrid has to continue reminding herself that it’s not permanent. Ever day, she must remind herself that Leonie is leaving.

Still, she nearly drops her teacup when Leonie says, six and a half moons after Ingrid first hired her, “My men and I have scoured the area, but the bandits seem to have run off. We can stay on for the rest of the moon, just to make sure they’re gone, but then we must search for other jobs.”

Ingrid nods. “I see.” She tightens her grip on her teacup and looks down into its contents. Four-spice blend. It’s the second of Leonie’s favourite brews, but far more expensive. House Galatea has only been able to afford splurges in the past moon or so, thanks to Dimitri and Leonie’s assistance. “So, you’ll be leaving.”

Something that looks like regret flickers over Leonie’s face, but smooths over before Ingrid can be sure. “Yes. We will likely be headed into old Imperial territory―the fall of the Empire has created much unrest, as you’ll know. They have bandit problems even worse than Galatea’s.”

“Imperial territory, huh?”

Ingrid rubs her thumb over her cup’s rim. The smooth, cool texture and the repetition of the action soothes her, gives her something else to focus on beside her suddenly rampaging thoughts.

Old Adrestia. Dimitri is doing his best, of course, but’s he’s gone from a lost king to the king of Faerghus to the king to the entirety of Fόdlan in the span of only a few moons. Faerghus lands, the lands he is most familiar with, are barely keeping together as it is. The old Alliance lords are doing their part, but Adrestia is another problem entirely. Without cooperative nobles, it’s a mess.

It’s also highly dangerous territory.

Ingrid looks up. “What kind of jobs are going?”

“Just your average bandit hunting jobs,” Leonie says, shrugging. “Find the bandits, get rid of them, get paid. None of them are currently long-term contracts like yours, however.”

Ingrid’s stomach falls. “You won’t have secure lodgings?”

“Nope. We’ll likely be camping between jobs―you can never guarantee if an inn will have enough space to house everyone, or if they’ll be willing to accommodate mercenaries at all.”

“ _Camping_?” Ingrid sets her tea down. Leonie’s nearly finished hers, but Ingrid’s is still quite full. “Leonie, Adrestia is dangerous―I don’t know much about its current situation, but I know that camping means you’re all but _asking_ to be attacked.”

Leonie laughs. “Then it’s a good thing that we’re experts, eh?” She reaches over and claps a hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. Her grip strong, her palms rough and weathered from training and her time in Galatea’s fields. “You don’t need to worry about us, Ingrid. We’ve dealt with bandits before.”

 _I know_ , Ingrid thinks, _but I can’t help but worry_. The thought of Leonie, alone and without a place to home in the entirety of Fόdlan, fills her with sadness.

Unless…

“Make Galatea your base,” Ingrid blurts.

Leonie blinks. “What?”

Ingrid’s mouth is dry, but she presses on. She can’t stop now. Not when she’s put it out in the open.

“Make Galatea your base,” she repeats. The cogs in her head begin to turn, over and over and over again. The more Ingrid thinks about it, the more sense it makes, the more _right_ it feels, and the more obvious it is that _this_ is the solution to all of the problems. She grips Leonie’s hands in both of her own. “Leonie, listen. Garreg Mach isn’t a base option since the Officers Academy is being rebuilt, and Charon or Rowe would be the most central positions after that, but Galatea still fits that bill. It’s not in former Empire territory, so you don’t have to worry about being attacked. The people know you, so you can come and go as you please without fear. They love you, too.” Ingrid’s heart twinges and she looks down. She can’t bear to the look on Leonie face when she adds, “And, perhaps selfishly, I’m not ready to say goodbye yet. I―I want a reason for you to keep coming back to Galatea. To me. I care deeply for you, Leonie.”

Ingrid withdraws her hands from Leonie’s, folding them neatly in her lap instead (it’s a habit she can’t seem to get out of, even after the need for marriage has passed). She presses her hands closer together, trying to hide that they’re shaking.

Not too long ago, she’d wondered why she’d still felt there was still a piece missing in her life, even as her friends began to settle and find all of theirs. Now, she knows. Now, she knows that she wants nothing more than for Leonie to stay by her side. She wants to continue helping Leonie work the fields, drink tea with her, to take long rides until they forget what time is. And she wants _more_ : she wants to hold Leonie’s hands, to feel Leonie’s lips on her own, to fall asleep in Leonie’s arms and wake up to see her on the other side of the bed.

Ingrid more than cares for Leonie―she _loves_ her.

She doesn’t understand how it’s taken her so long to realise.

Leonie shuffles closer, dragging her chair with her. Ingrid still can’t look up. She isn’t afraid of many things, but having her heart broken again is one of them. Goddess knows what that did to her the first time.

Slowly, Leonie’s hand rises, and comes to rest on Ingrid’s cheek. Ingrid stiffens, not daring to move.

“Ingrid,” Leonie says, steady but tense. “If you don’t tell me not to, I’m going to kiss you now.”

Ingrid sucks in a breath between her teeth. She looks up, barely catching the fond look on Leonie’s face as she leans in and kisses her.

Ingrid moans, sliding her hand down to the back of Leonie’s head, pulling her closer. Leonie obliges, her hand still on Ingrid’s cheek, tilting her chin up for a better angle. It’s messy, a little sloppy, even―the closest Ingrid has gotten to kissing is reading about it―but it’s exhilarating all the same. When their lips part, Leonie leans her forehead down so it rests against Ingrid’s.

“Ingrid,” Leonie murmurs. “I would love to take you up on that offer.”

.

.

.

 **Ingrid** **―Stalwart Knight, and Leonie** **―the Blade Breaker II.**

After the war, Ingrid declined to rule House Galatea, choosing instead to serve House Blaiddyd has the captain of its knights. When Galatea lands were threatened by bandits, she called on Leonie to help keep her people safe. Leonie worked tirelessly to protect Galatea, and helped changed its hunting and agricultural methods in the process. She was so loved in Galatea that Ingrid persuaded to use her house as a base. The two were kept busy, achieving widespread renown and respect in both their fields; this made their time together was short, but they treasured every moment. Though they never married, it is said that the dedication and love between them demonstrated their love for each other more than marriage ever could. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [another life; another path...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285714/chapters/53223766)


	3. not a knight, but a mercenary in shining armour

**PATH TWO: VERDANT WIND**

**NOT YOUR KNIGHT,  
YOUR MERCENARY IN SHINING ARMOUR**

The battle is over, but they are not the victors.

Ingrid tightens her hold on Lúin and imagines herself with Dimitri’s immense strength, snapping it in half. Quarters, even, or smithereens―it’s no good whole, so reducing it to a few pieces shouldn’t be of any detriment.

The Hero’s Relics are _supposed_ to be powerful weapons. Since she was old enough to understand words, Ingrid has heard countless stories about how they can turn the tides of wars, or provide the last burst of strength in heroic battles to claim victory. She hung onto those stories as a child, imagined herself as a knight wielding Lúin, charging in to save her king and her kingdom.

Now, if the atmosphere wasn’t so heavy, she’d laugh in everyone’s faces. In her _own_ face, for believing such stories and ever thinking herself as even coming close to the knights of old.

No weapon, not Lúin or the Lance of Ruin or even _Areadbhar_ , had been able to save this battle. War is not pretty, but _this_?

Ingrid has always had a strong stomach, yet even she has to swallow back the urge to be sick.

Gronder Field is a graveyard, a ruin, a nightmare come to life. It’s what her favourite legends describe happening to the villains―but this time, it’s happened to all of them. The fact that it almost isn’t inaccurate to say that there’s a dead body ever two steps makes the blood drain from Ingrid’s face and sends her stomach churning. It’s especially horrific to be on the losing side, to see so many uniforms in Kingdom blue scattered like litter over the field.

(Ingrid can’t help but wonder if there are any victors today at all. Is this how Glenn felt, watching King Lambert and his entire company being slaughtered before his eyes?)

Ingrid rubs her forehead and glances to the side. Felix and Sylvain stand with her; somehow, they are also survivors. Blood streaks down Felix’s face and Sylvain can barely walk without wincing, but they’re alive, and they’re with her.

She doesn’t know what she’d do without them.

They’re not the only ones with injuries. From their position in the trees, Ingrid can see the remnants of the Alliance army, shaken and battered and broken. Even the professor and Claude had come away from that battle with heavy wounds, and are being tended to at the healer’s tent. Ingrid would drag Felix there herself if she wasn’t apprehensive of what the Alliance might do to Kingdom soldiers.

If there even _is_ a Kingdom anymore, now that Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, their king, _her_ king, her lifelong friend, is dead, and had taken the Kingdom’s army with him.

(Ingrid had heard Mercedes scream as she was cut down by an assassin, after she’d gotten too close to the front lines. Ingrid had been too preoccupied protecting Dimitri to notice her plight until it was too late.

Ingrid will hear that scream, over and over and over again, for the rest of her days.)

And when she was needed the most, when Dimitri had really needed protection, she wasn’t there. A horde of archers had taken interest in her, and spared no effort to bring her down. Odette had been injured―not fatally, fortunately―but bad enough that Ingrid had to land her and yank the arrow out before the damage accumulated and left her unable to fly, let alone fight. By the time she’d returned to the battle, it was to the news that Dimitri was dead and the remaining Kingdom army, as small as they’d been by then, had retreated.

It would have been less painful to have died as well.

She still doesn’t know what Sylvain and Felix were doing to escape the same fate as so many Kingdom soldiers; she’d just held onto both of them and advised them to hide. But she won’t pry―especially since Sylvain’s arm is wrapped protectively around Felix, and Felix is paler than death. It would do more harm than good to get either of them to talk.

Now, they’re hiding in a thick copse of trees just on the edge of Gronder Field. It was as far as they can drag themselves: they’re too injured to continue walking and leave Gronder behind, but they also can’t reveal themselves to the Alliance without knowing how they’ll be treated. So, for now, they have to stay. Hiding like _prey_.

It’s a spectacular plan. How heroic. How _knightly_. Ingrid would laugh if she wasn’t afraid of getting them all caught.

“So,” Sylvain says, his usual trademark grin on his face, “We need to think of a plan. We can’t stay here tonight, not when the smell of blood will bring all matter of beasts here.” Felix flinches in his arms, and Sylvain squeezes his shoulder, rubbing it. “Garnet can’t carry all of us and Odette’s hurt, but if you two ride her and I walk―”

Ingrid rests a hand on Sylvain’s arm, the one not wrapped around Felix.

“Sylvain,” she gets gently. “Stop. That’s enough.”

Sylvain’s grin hardly ever reaches his eyes, typically always stopping just shy, but this time it’s worse. This time, it doesn’t even reach halfway. He’s as tired and hurt as they are, but still trying to be the brave one. The older brother, the ones who knows everything, ever their protector even when he feels he’s breaking at the seams.

Sylvain doesn’t say anything, but he leans a little into Ingrid’s touch. Ingrid leans her head closer, too Neither of them know what to do next, but they can be clueless together. For now, all that’s important is that they’re alive. Being alive means they have time to plan their next move, whenever the chance arises.

“Ingrid,” a voice breathes behind them, one that Ingrid thinks could either be their demise or their saving grace. “Please tell me my eyes aren’t deceiving me.”

Ingrid would know that voice anywhere.

Slowly, she turns. Leonie has pulled Amira to a stop just outside of the trees, staring at them with wide eyes and a partially opened mouth. Both hands rest on Amira’s reigns; her lance and her bow are both stored away.

Ingrid sucks in a breath and feels her entire mouth turn dry. She’s suddenly dizzy, and if she wasn’t holding onto Sylvain, she may have fallen to her knees.

“Leonie,” Ingrid breathes.

Leonie jumps off of Amira and walks towards them. Ingrid gets a proper look at her as she comes closer, her features less obscured by the shadows. There’s a tear in her sleeves and her skin is stained with blood, but she’s otherwise standing tall and walking with powerful strides. She’s fine. She’s more than fine. She’s _alive_.

In the end, that’s all that matters.

Ingrid takes a few steps toward, and then another, and they meet each other halfway. Ingrid barely has time to open her mouth before Leonie pulls her into an embrace, arms wrapped around Ingrid’s slightly smaller body. She reeks of sweat and blood, but Ingrid doesn’t care―she only presses herself closer into Leonie’s body and buries her head in the crook of Leonie’s neck.

She doesn’t want to let go. She can’t. Not when somehow, miraculously, they’re both alive despite being on opposite sides. Not when Ingrid has lost almost everything, but here Leonie is, like a gift from Sothis herself.

Leonie pats her back and loosens her hold. Ingrid takes the cue and reluctantly steps away, but remains close enough that she can feel the warmth radiate from Leonie’s body. It’s the proof and reassurance she needs to know that this isn’t a dream, that Leonie’s heart is beating and she’s actually _here_ , not on some far-away place on the opposite side of the field.

She doesn’t miss the way Leonie shuffles ever so closer, stretching her fingers out so their hands brush.

“Felix. Sylvain,” Leonie says, brusque but gentle around the edges. “Good to see you two. I―I’m sorry, about Dimitri. Hilda told us what happened and―well. He deserved better.”

Felix nods, but doesn’t take his eyes from the ground. Sylvain picks up the slack, flashing her a smile―this time, he doesn’t even try to mask how exhausted he is. “Thanks, Leonie. It’s nice to see a friendly face.”

Leonie inclines her head. Ingrid turns to her. “What are you doing here?”

Leonie shrugs. “Raphael, Hilda and I made it through without serious injury, so Claude sent us to find anyone who’s wounded and bring them to the healing tent.”

“Oh. I see.”

Ingrid can’t explain why her heart falls a little. As a solider and a knight, she knows that Leonie’s job is important. She knows that, after battle, helping the wounded is crucial. She knows how much it hurts to leave anyone behind. If she was in Leonie’s position, she’d be doing the same thing.

But maybe, a hopeful, foolish part of her had hoped for something different.

Ingrid steps aside. “Don’t let us hold you up, then.”

“No.” Leonie sends a pointed look at their numerous wounds. “Look at you. All three of you are wounded and in need medical attention. What was your plan, stay here until nightfall?”

“It was. We’re not Alliance, Leonie. We can’t expect your healers to heal us.”

“But you’re not enemies, either.” Leonie smiles sadly. “You’re _friends_. We couldn’t change sides while we were fighting, but that’s over now. I don’t want you to die.”

Ingrid tilts her head, trying to ignore the warm sensation blooming in her chest. “What are you suggesting?”

“Come with us. Claude is always open to more soldiers―we’ll need as many as we can get to attack Enbarr. You aid would be greatly appreciated.”

“I’m not sure he’ll want to see me,” Ingrid says dryly, recalling how she used to chase Claude through the halls of Garreg Mach. She’d apologised, yes, but they’d still fought afterwards. She can’t recall whether or not they apologised to each other for their last argument before war broke out.

Leonie snickers. “I think I know what you’re talking about―but c’mon, he’s not about to turn away aid. We all have a common enemy, and you want revenge for Dimitri, right?”

Ingrid tenses.

Goddess, she wants that more than anything. er country places a great deal on honour and avenging those who are lost; vengeance is something she should automatically want as a knight, and even just as a citizen of Faerghus.

But this time, it’s more than that. She doesn’t want to avenge Dimitri simply because he was her king. Before he was her king―before he was her prince, even―he was her friend. They’d been sharing cradles and playing together long before she was taught the definitions of _prince_ and _royalty_ and _king_.

It’s barely been an hour since the battle ended, and yet she misses him so much that there’s an empty hole in her chest. Luna, cast right into her soul.

She should return to Faerghus and be there for her family. She should strike out on her own, infiltrate Enbarr, and put her sword through Edelgard’s chest―just as Sir Eugene had done to the king who killed his lord.

But she doesn’t want either of those things. Not anymore.

Ingrid glances back at Sylvain and Felix. Sylvain simply nods, and Felix doesn’t respond; he still hasn’t looked up from the ground. That’s as good as agreement from Felix, no matter how reluctantly.

Ingrid turns back to Leonie and smiles, as much as she is able.

“Yes,” she agrees. She reaches out and takes Leonie’s hand. “We’d like that.”

.

.

.

Ingrid hears Leonie long before she sees her.

The training grounds are open, and the grounds leading up to them even more so. It’s unlikely anyone will ever hear the sounds of a single person’s footsteps pounding against the stone floor, especially considering the thick walls and door that separates the training grounds from the rest of the monastery, but Ingrid hears them anyway.

She shouldn’t be surprised. Leonie is all fire and determination, a blaze contained into the single area that’s desperate to be set free. She’s unstoppable when she sets her mind to something, and something as simple as an _open area_ or _thick walls_ won’t stop her from being heard if she wants it.

Ingrid has braced herself for it, but still flinches when the doors slam open and Leonie storms in, a cyclone of wild fire and fury, her fists balled at her sides and her gaze _scathing_.

“What,” Leonie yells, storming ever nearer, “The actual _fuck_ happened during our last battle, Ingrid Brandl Galatea?”

Her voice is cracked, shaking with its power. Ingrid sets her lance down and sighs. This is one confrontation she knows that she can’t punch, snap at, or spar her way out of. This is one confrontation she’s known was coming, ever since Sylvain told her that Leonie was barely speaking to anyone, but instead taking a leaf out of Felix’s book and letting her emotions out on training dummies.

Even so, Ingrid’s barely prepared for it.

“I was doing my duty,” she says evenly, as steadfast and composed as a knight on alert, because her identity as a knight is all she has left to cling to. Leonie stops in front of her, the polar opposite of knightly: her breaths are hard, laboured, and her shoulders shake with the force of them.

Leonie barks a laugh in her face.

“Your _duty_ ,” she repeats, all but spitting the words. Her voice gets louder and louder the longer she speaks. “Tell me, is it your duty to die for no reason? Is it your _duty_ to throw yourself before a lord you like but barely know, just because your first one died? Tell me, is it your _duty_ to _throw away your life_ , mere _weeks_ after I _saved it_?”

She’s yelling now, loud enough for the entire monastery to hear, Ingrid’s shirt gripped tightly in her fist and her glare blazing hot enough to put even Lysithea’s spells to shame. Ingrid opens her mouth, only to close it and swallow. The silence weighs heavily on them both.

She has no explanation for the last battle, nor any excuse. She just has the events as they unfolded: Edelgard, angling her axe at Claude. Claude, who’d looked back when Hilda was hit, and thus too slow to dodge the attack. Ingrid, spotting it. Ingrid, charging forward with Odette, and taking the hit herself.

She’d woken up five days later in the infirmary, Sylvain and Felix beside her. She’d barely opened her eyes before Felix stood up, snapped something about her ideals she’d barely understood, and stormed out. Leonie hadn’t been there and, apparently, she hadn’t stopped by once.

Now, when Ingrid is discharged and under strict instructions to keep training to a minimum, Leonie is finally confronting her.

And Ingrid finally understands why it has taken her so long. She flushes and lowers her head―she can’t bare to look at Leonie in the eye.

“I’m sorry, Leonie. But as a knight―”

“As a _knight_?” Leonie repeats incredulously. “What about as a _human_? Ingrid, do you really feel like so much of a failure that your death is the only way to supposedly _make up for it_?”

Ingrid blinks, stunned into speechlessness. Leonie pauses, fuming, giving her a moment to reply before powering on.

“Because it wouldn’t. It would solve _nothing_. In fact, it would only cause more problems. Do you really want to leave Sylvain and Felix behind like this? Leave Claude to take the skies alone? Leave Raphael constantly the sole victor of eating competitions, without anyone to challenge him? Leave _me_ without you? Because your death would only leave us _heartbroken_ , Ingrid. It would give us only another empty space to mourn. We’ve already lost too much in this goddess-damned war.”

Her voice is trembling in its anger. Ingrid stares at Leonie’s flushed face, her bright eyes, the whites of her knuckles. She’s so passionate about this, about communicating this message, about making sure Ingrid not just hears her, but understands.

Perhaps Ingrid only gets the underlying meaning because she’s spent so much time around Felix, but still. She recognises the force that drives those words.

Leonie cares. Leonie cares about _Ingrid_ , about her life, her feelings, her well-being. Not as a knight or a for her Crest, but as _Ingrid_.

The realisation hits Ingrid like a strike to the head.

Ingrid’s breathing quickens as she buries her head in her hands, as though that will do anything to soften the blow of the epiphany. As though that will block out the image of Dimitri, pierced by all those spears. Of Felix’s stricken face. Of their army, their people, being decimated before her eyes.

Ingrid hasn’t cried since Glenn died.

But now, she feels close to it.

“I just keep seeing him, Leonie,” she whispers. “What happened―it was _awful_. And I wasn’t there. I was looking out for Odette instead.” She laughs bitterly. “I should’ve been there. I was his knight, his _friend_. I’ve been by his side before I knew what a friend was. _I should’ve saved him_.”

“Oh, Ingrid,” Leonie murmurs.

Ingrid feels Leonie’s hands wrap gently around her wrists, and they’re gently prised away before Leonie pulls her into a hug. Ingrid allows herself to be held, burrowing closer into Leonie, letting herself come apart in Leonie’s arms.

It’s been so, so long since she felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable like this, since she felt like someone would allow her to feel her emotions instead of scorning her for it. It strange and catches her off guard, like she thinks she’s climbing onto Odette only to end up on a wyvern’s back instead.

“You’re _not_ at fault,” Leonie says, caring but firm. “You did everything you could. And looking out for yourself is fine―you’d have been no use to Dimitri dead. And if you’d died, you wouldn’t have ended up here with us.”

“But a knight gives their life for their king,” Ingrid says faintly. It sounds like an echo, something that bounces back without a choice and is weaker for it, than actual conviction. 

“Sounds like a short life,” Leonie mutters, squeezing Ingrid. When she next speaks, her voice is quiet. Breaking, even. “Ingrid, _please_. Do you know how I felt when I saw you fall? I’ll tell you. I was _terrified_. I’ve come close to death, I’ve watched my men die, but nothing has instilled more fear in me than seeing you dart in front of Claude. Hilda had to restrain me so I wouldn’t bother Marianne while she was healing you.”

Ingrid closes her eyes. “My apologies, Leonie.”

“Keep them. You’re alive, and that’s all I care about.” Leonie pulls away to look Ingrid in the eye, though her hand remains on Ingrid’s shoulder. “Ingrid, you _need_ to let go of these ideals before they swallow you whole. I don’t want you to become so unfeeling towards death that your own life means nothing to you, or that you think that it’s less important than Dimitri’s or Claude’s. We’re glad you’re still here. _Grateful_.”

Ingrid blinks. Leonie’s words are as unusual and difficult to make sense of as the equation for Agnea’s Arrow. Still, for some reason, even though they’re as jarring in her ears as improperly played music, they make Ingrid smile―she can detect some of the underlying meaning them.

“It’s… strange, to hear that,” she admits. Not many people have told me that I’m more important than someone else.”

It’s what’s been thrown in her face from the time she could string sentences. The notion is in Faerghus’s legends, the doctrine passed down through every family line―her life is not her own. It is in service to her family, to her king, to her duty. Her own wants have always been brushed aside as frivolities, indulgences, unimportant.

And she’s grown up believing it.

No one has ever told her how it impacts others. She’d had a taste of it when Glenn died, but she was consoled with reassurances that he died like a true knight. She was told that his death was to be admired and that she should be proud. She should hope to die like that as well. She hadn’t questioned it.

So, when Sylvain had coaxed her out of her room, she was told to lock away her grief and return to her duty. _It’s what Glenn would do_ , they’d said.

That was then. This is now, and this is the first time she’s been told otherwise. It’s _strange_ , like a new taste on her tongue. One that tastes surprisingly good.

“Then I will tell you, over and over again, until it sinks in,” Leonie says fiercely. “And hey, think of it this way: we’re going to Shambala now. You can get revenge for Dimitri there.”

Ingrid breathes out. “You’re right.”

Shambala, the Agarthans, the true threat that slithers in Fόdlan’s shadows. The ones who have orchestrated so much of the suffering. Dimitri won’t rest easy―no. _She_ won’t be able to rest easy, not until they’re defeated. Until Fόdlan is safe. 

“And, if you need any extra motivation, just look at Felix.” Leonie’s smile fades, even as she chuckles. “I don’t think Claude can handle two of you self-destructing like that.”

Ingrid laughs weakly, her heart falling. She barely asked about him while she was in the infirmary, or many of her friends; she’d demanded to be kept up to date with the war effort instead, and had focused on little else.

Maybe that was another way she was desperately clinging to her knighthood, too. How long has she been unconsciously pushing her friends away in favour of her dream?

“I should check on him,” she murmurs. “Sylvain and Lysithea have been doing that for me.”

Goddess, how she wishes Annette was still with them―but she’d refused to leave Fhirdiad and the people left there. At least she’s safe from this mess the war has created.

At least she wasn’t there to see her best friend die. That’s a small mercy.

“Think of it this way―it keeps Sylvain from flirting,” Leonie says, in a brave attempt to lighten the mood. Ingrid pretends not to notice the heaviness in her eyes. “But you should go to him anyway. We―well. We were training in the same room for almost every hour while you were recovering. You two need to talk.”

Ingrid bites her lip. Goddess, how could she have forgotten her friends, the people she loves? She’d been devastated when Glenn died, when Dimitri and Mercedes passed. Why hadn’t she thought her friends baring that same pain if she’d died?

There are a lot of things for her to smooth out.

“We do,” Ingrid says, bending down to pick up her lance. She hesitates before stepping forward, pulling Leonie into a fleeting embrace. The contact, as short as it is, feel like it’s burning. “Thanks, Leonie.”

“Anytime, Ingrid.”

Ingrid places her training lance away and walks toward the exit. Just as she reaches the doors, Leonie’s voice calls out behind her.

“Don’t die on me, Ingrid. Promise me that.”

Ingrid leaves her hand resting against the doors.

For so long, she’s thought of herself as a failed knight for leaving Dimitri’s sides. She didn’t feel like she was allowed to return home, not after she’d let down her king and her kingdom, nor that she had the right to watch Dimitri be buried when she was so sure she was the reason he was being put in the ground.

Leonie’s right―she had been trying to make up for it by protecting Claude, perhaps seeking recompense with her death. Her ideals hadn’t changed―only the lord she’d sworn herself to. That was what she’d been living for.

But she’s finding reasons to live beyond her knightly vows. They’re revealing themselves to her slowly, like shy animals creeping out of the wild, only revealing themselves once they feel it’s safe to do so, but they’re there. Her friends, for starters. Determination to beat Raphael in the next competition. Seeing Ignatz’s next masterpiece.

Being able to train once again with Leonie.

Ingrid looks over her shoulder, to where Leonie’s still standing. She hasn’t moved in the slightest. Ingrid hasn’t noticed the way the sunlight’s falling on her until now, making her shine as brightly as the sun. Perhaps brighter.

A small smile creeps onto Ingrid’s face.

“I promise.”

.

.

.

Battling Nemesis’s army makes Gronder Field feel tame in comparison.

It’s bloody. It’s desperate. The army of ghosts, figures who belong in the past, arrive in a greater numbers than anyone could have expected. They’re vicious, merciless, their attacks direct and savage, and they run forward without care of the consequences. The army of Fόdlan fights back, teeth gritted and desperation clinging to every soldier, whether they be fighter or healer.

Everyone’s desperate. Everyone’s afraid. They all know what’s on the line, and what will happen when they fail. They were ordered to fight, and they will. They’ll fight until their last breath.

And it’s Ingrid’s duty, too, and not because she was ordered to pick up her lance and fight. She thinks back to the children at the monastery; to the unsuspecting innocents in the Alliance, and then in Faerghus and Adestria; to the hundreds already dead and wounded up in Nemesis’s bloodbath.

It’s her duty because she _chooses_ to fight, because she chooses to defeat Nemesis and his Elites. Because she wants to protect Fόdlan.

And she’s not going to let anything―or anyone, including a returned king of legend―stop her from achieving it.

Ingrid rips Lúin out of one of the ancient soldiers, and he barely cries out as he collapses to the floor. If the grey tone of his skin wasn’t unnatural enough, his blood definitely is―it’s thick, barely pouring out of him despite the hole in his chest, so dark that it’s almost black. She shouldn’t be surprised. The army they’re against isn’t exactly natural, in appearance or in strength.

Claude’s army, meanwhile, is as mortal as they come. They’re all clustered close together, slowly making their way through enemy rank. Many fight in pairs; Petra darts out from behind Raphael, slashing with her sword, while from the back Ignatz lets loose an arrow, taking down an assassin that rushes after Lysithea, who’s casting Luna Λ on the leader of the remaining Agarthan forces.

The ancient army is huge, but they’ve always fought stronger together, and they have the will and tenacity to meet it.

And they have something to fight for, something to protect, a cause they care for―something that goes beyond mere orders.

Ingrid grits her teeth and wields Odette around, ready to chase down her next opponent.

She all but freezes in her tracks.

She can barely make out the soldier’s features, but the way the holy knight armour shapes his body tells Ingrid it’s a male. His presence is looming, taking up twice as much space as any soldier. In his left hand, white magic at his fingertips. The other holds a very familiar lance.

 _L_ _úin_.

The soldier wields Lúin. A darker, muted version of it, enveloped in some unnatural purple light. It looks as dead as the solider wielding it, and yet Ingrid would recognise that lance anywhere. She’s become very familiar with every inch of and scratch on it during the war.

That can only mean one thing: this solider is Daphnel, and the original bearer of her Crest. Ingrid feels like she’s staring into a mirror, and finding that the image looking back at her is warped.

There must be similarities between them. He’d dedicated himself to Nemesis’s cause, just as she had dedicated herself to her family and her king. He’d followed Nemesis, assisted him, fought her him. Ingrid had done the same for Dimitri.

And look where it’s got him: to becoming an unthinking, unknowing puppet, at the whims of Nemesis’s ambitions. He pledged his loyalty, and became this in exchange. He doesn’t even seem to recognise that lance she wields matches his own.

Had he known, when he allied with Nemesis, that this was the future that awaited him? He couldn’t have had. Ingrid wonders if he’d still have accepted if he’d known. It’s a terrible future to have―she knows she wouldn’t have wanted it.

Ingrid tightens her grip on Lúin, her breathing hard and fast, and not because of the battle. Because, in Daphnel, she can see a reflection of herself if she let herself be ruled by her duty: a mindless soldier, blindly loyal to her liege’s orders, following them without comment or concern for the consequences. Not to the extreme that the Ten Elites are at now, but close enough.

Dimitri was not cruel. Dimitri would never have used her like that. But she was so devoted to the ideals of knighthood that, if he had been, she would’ve let herself be used.

The blood drains from Ingrid’s face, leaving her so dizzy that she nearly falls from Odette’s back.

An arrow speeds past Ingrid, and lands solidly in Daphnel’s shoulder. Ingrid glances back and _grins_ to see Leonie charging forward, one hand on the reigns and the other holding her bow.

“Ingrid, stay with me!” she yells, and knocks another arrow.

She’s blazing, _burning_ like lightning set loose, and it’s a wonder that the entire enemy army doesn’t catch fire from her energy alone. It’s the shock that Ingrid needs to return to herself, to the battle, to the threat in front of her. Ingrid shakes herself and readjusts her hold on Lúin, angling it towards Daphnel. With a kick of her heels and a yell from her lips, she urges Odette onwards and swoops down.

She can’t live by the what-ifs; she can only live by the now. Now, she isn’t a knight. She is, first and foremost, a warrior. A _survivor_. A soldier in Claude’s army.

Her Crest doesn’t dictate her destiny, nor does her country’s―or her own―long-term idolisation of knighthood. She can forge her own path, free of any of those restraints―and what better way to start than by killing the man responsible for the doubts that have plagued her since childhood?

Lúin strikes where Leonie’s arrow had landed, burrowing deeper into Daphnel’s shoulder. He swings at her in retaliation―there is strength in that swing, but Ingrid is faster, and Odette nips out of the way. Another arrow shoots past from Leonie, finding its mark in Daphnel’s side, exposing his chest. Ingrid grips Luin and stabs down, burying her lance in Daphnel’s heart.

Like the nameless soldiers before him, Daphnel falls into the swamp without a word. It’s such a quiet, inconsequential death for someone who’d helped to leave such a large mark on Fόdlan’s history.

Ingrid’s shoulders heave as she stares down at her enemy. Daphnel. One of the Ten Elites. Her ancestor, and a feared warrior, one who committed atrocities in the past.

And now he’s dead. She killed him.

Because of her, and Leonie, they’re that much closer to Nemesis.

Ingrid looks up. The army edges closer and closer to the King of Liberation as his generals fall around him in drones. Sylvain, eyes hard, pierces Gautier’s armour send shoves him off his horse; Claude leers Riegan away, opening the path to Nemesis. Byleth charges toward him, Lysithea at their side.

Ingrid thinks she’s starting to see that new dawn that Claude always talks about. She’d had her doubts, but now she sees its first rays peeking over the horizon. The longer they live, the more she feels like it’s a distinct possibility.

She will not go into it quietly.

Ingrid turns to Leonie, who’s urged Amira to her side, and smiles.

“Thank you,” she says. The weight of the world is carried in those two words.

Leonie grins. “Anytime,” she quips back, flicking her hair out of face. She jerks her head toward the battle, her grin sharpening into a smirk. “Shall we show them?”

Ingrid nods, her grin matching Leonie’s. “We shall.”

They charge forward, re-entering the battle together. Fighting together is still relatively new for them, considering it’s only been months since Ingrid joined Claude’s cause, but it feels like a lifetime. It’s natural for Leonie to be at her side, switching between her bow and her lance to either cover Ingrid from behind or defend her from the front, while Ingrid and Odette dart all over the field. No soldier is a match for them―and when Lamine is defeated, clearing the swamp, their damage only increases.

It’s exhilarating. Not the battle, but Leonie being at her side.

When Nemesis falls to Byleth’s hands, they watch it together, side by side.

When the new dawn rushes in, they’re there to see it, there hands tightly wound.

.

.

.

The sky over Garreg Mach grows darker. The world become quieter, the land falls asleep around them, and it won’t be long until the horizon starts to become light once more―but no one makes any move to return to their rooms.

The Golden Deer and their allies remain sequestered in the dining hall, picking at the leftover food from their feast and drinking the last drops of wine. They’d had a grand feast the day they returned from their final battle, one to both celebrate their victory and toast to the many friends that they’d lost, but this one had been a quieter affair. After a week of resting and regathering themselves, tomorrow they’ll all be setting out on their separate paths.

Tomorrow, the Golden Deer house will disperse for the final time (even though Felix and Sylvain have already left, together, to goddess knows where). Tonight, they take one last opportunity to sit together, to talk and to eat, to make promises to keep in contact before they start their own adventures.

Ingrid converses with her comrades, her _friends_ , for a few hours before she finds herself drifting towards the door. She looks back at them over her shoulder, smiling when she sees Marianne and Hilda begin to doze off in the corner, Hilda’s head on Marianne’s shoulder and a soft smile on Marianne’s face; the hopeful shine in Lysithea’s eyes as she talks to Hanneman, Cyril standing supportively at her side and his hand in her own; Claude and Byleth’s heads bent close together, as they’d often been during to war, discussing whatever schemes and tactics Claude had concocted―but now Claude’s shoulders are relaxed, and there’s the most real expression of content on Byleth’s face that Ingrid has ever seen on them.

They’re a good bunch. She cares for them deeply, and she knows that they’ll do well on whatever paths they pursue―but Ingrid also feels like she’s intruding on something intimate. She has her place among them, but they’ve been together since the beginning. This is their night.

Ingrid smiles one last time before she slips out of the dining hall, and makes her way outside.

She walks through the monastery, as quiet as a ghost. The place had been packed mere weeks ago, but now the greatest movement is the leaves in the wind, the greatest sound the faint voices wafting from the dining hall―and they fade into the air the further away Ingrid walks. She makes her way through the reception hall, up the stairs to the second floor, and even higher until she reaches the barely-touched third floor. She glances at Rhea’s door as she passes and wonders how she’s faring. She wonders how Rhea will find her place in this rapidly changing world if she recovers, if someone as ancient as her can find a place at all.

Ingrid shakes her head. If she’s starting to find her own sense of belonging, then it’s not impossible for Rhea―or anyone else, for that matter―to find it too. Ingrid walks past Rhea’s room without another look, and exits out of the corridors onto the star terrace.

She’s barely been up here, too focused on training and preparing for the next battle to take time to relax, and Ingrid could curse herself for it. The water runs like a peaceful lullaby in the background, and the skies feel as close to her as they are on Odette’s back. Ingrid tilts her head back and breathes in, feeling her entire body relax. There are no clouds in the sky tonight. The world is as open to her, just as she prefers it.

Ingrid walks to the end of the terrace and perches herself on the very edge, leg dangling into empty air. Heights have never frightened her―she’s adept as a falcon knight for a reason―but instead make her feel free. Felix has a distain for both horses and pegasi, preferring to remain rooted to the ground, but in the air Ingrid feels distant from everything on earth that’s tying her down. There are no restraints in the sky; there’s only herself, Odette, and her skill.

She wonders why she’s never realised that until now.

Behind her, someone clears their throat. Ingrid doesn’t even blink. 

“The festivities a little heavy for you?” Leonie asks.

She’s close, but far away too―she must be standing in the threshold between the indoors and outdoors. Ingrid can picture her leaning against the doorframe, arms folded over her chest, but a small smile on her face. Her voice is laced with a quiet contentedness.

Ingrid shrugs. “I just needed some time to think,” she says, not taking her eyes off of the stars. “Time to myself. And it’s more their celebration than my own.”

“Mm. I get that.”

Ingrid half expects Leonie to leave and return to her classmates, so she’s pleasantly surprised when Leonie’s footsteps become louder instead of quieter. For a moment, Leonie hesitates by the terrace’s edge, before she draws in a deep breath and settles herself on the stone as well. She sits further back than Ingrid does, her hands gripping the stone. Ingrid reaches out and covers one of Leonie’s hands with her own. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.”

They’re thin words. She has no way of preventing that, of course, not without Odette. But, judging from the delighted laughter that falls from Leonie’s lips, she appreciates the sentiment anyway.

“Thanks,” she chuckles. Ingrid feels her slightly lessen her grip on the stone. “That’s reassuring, actually.”

She stares out at the view―not the large drop beneath them, but what’s in front of them. Ingrid smiles and looks out, too. The stars don’t provide enough light to see much more than shapes and outlines, but even the stars stretch for miles, both above and before her.

When did she last take the time to do something as simple as gaze out at the world, and actually take it in? Ingrid can’t remember. Perhaps that’s why this view, obscured as it is, is so awe inspiring. 

“I never realised just how vast the world is,” she murmurs. She cups her chin with her free hand. “Even during our academy days, when we’d travel for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion and to other missions… I never appreciated how big it is. It makes me feel small. With so much space, it feels like anything’s possible.”

Leonie hums. “That makes me think of something Claude said, that the world is what supports us. Sustains us. It gives us air to breathe and food to eat.” She smiles. “And I like to think that, by doing so, it provides us what we need so we can pursue our dreams.”

“It _is_ a comforting thought. I like that idea.”

Ingrid has never thought of the world like that before, but it just makes so much sense. She leans back, tilting her head. Her perspective had changed and become so much broader ever since their last battle―had started changing, perhaps, ever since Leonie stormed in on her training session.

Unlike then, Ingrid no longer feels limited. She no longer free only in the skies―slowly, she’s untangling the things holding her on the ground, too.

Leonie nudges her side. “Hey, what’s brought _this_ on? It’s not like you to be so melancholy.”

“I was thinking about what happens to me now that we’re moving on. Where I’ll go. What I’ll do.” She turns to Leonie. “You’re becoming a mercenary again, aren’t you?”

Leonie nods, sharp and decisive. “Of course. My men and I have already accepted our next job.”

Leonie’s always known exactly what she wants, and has never allowed anyone to stop her achieving it. Ingrid smiles. “You move quickly.”

She wonders what she could have achieved if she, too, hadn’t allowed anyone―including herself― to hold her back. It makes her feel a little sad, but she pushes it aside. There’s no point dwelling on the past now, not when they’re all running headlong into the future.

Leonie shrugs. “Time is money for a mercenary. You learn that quickly once you start the job.” She hesitates before adding, in a much quieter voice, “You could join us, if you wanted. I know you don’t want to live as a noble lady.” She looks away. “Look, I know it isn’t a knight’s job, but our company is focused on protecting people. We don’t just accept any odd job.”

Hope flares in Ingrid’s chest. She’s been considering what she wants for her future since Leonie told her to loosen her hold on her ideals and, perhaps a little selfishly, Ingrid had imagined herself in Leonie’s company. She’s able to picture it, even; she sees herself riding beside Leonie, using Odette’s agility and flight to accomplish some of the more delicate missions, and eating dinners scoured by hunting around a campfire.

So, it’s physically painful for Ingrid to say, “I’m sorry, Leonie. I can’t accept right now.”

“Ah. I see.”

Leonie shrugs it off, an easy grin on her face, but Ingrid can see through it easily. She _knows_ that smile is fake. Leonie has never been the best actor―she’s always been best as herself, unrestrained. Ingrid hates seeing her otherwise.

“You misunderstand,” Ingrid says hastily. She squeezes Leonie’s hand, and makes sure to look Leonie in the eye. “I’d like to, very much. But I can’t right now. Galatea is in shambles, and there’s no one left in power who understands Faerghus. I can’t leave my brothers to deal with this alone. So, I’ll go to them, smooth things out, and chase bandits from our home. But afterwards?” Ingrid smiles, shuffling closer to Leonie. “I might just take you up on your offer. There are no lords I want to swear fealty to―and I want to see what another life could be like. I want to spend time with _you_.”

Leonie raises an eyebrow.

“So,” she says, “Say I arrive at your doorstep a year from now. Will you change your mind? Will you still want to join me?”

Ingrid doesn’t hesitate before saying, “I will. More than anything.”

Leonie’s right. She doesn’t want to be a noble lady. She’s never wanted to take over Galatea, or marry to rule over another―it had only been bearable to think of marrying Glenn because he’d reassured her that he’d never want her to put down her lance. It would be safe and comfortable, for sure, but Ingrid’s never been fond of just settling for comfortable. She wants to push herself. She wants to fight. And if she can’t be a knight, then is being a mercenary really so bad?

And she’ll be with Leonie. Thinking of a life without Leonie makes Ingrid’s chest feel hollow.

Ingrid leans over and pecks Leonie on the cheek. Leonie blinks, her eyes flying wide open she wheels around to face Ingrid, hand pressed to her cheek. Ingrid flushes.

“That’s a promise,” she says, looking at her hands. “A reminder. I can give you a proper kiss when we reunite.”

Leonie’s huff of laughter is a surprised, breathless thing. She turns Ingrid’s face toward her so she, too, can press her lips to Ingrid’s cheek. The same side that Ingrid had kissed on hers.

“I’ll hold you to your promise,” she says.

As if Ingrid could ever think of breaking it.

.

.

.

When Ingrid opens the door to her room, it’s to find her brothers waiting for her outside.

“What are you _doing_?” she hisses at them. She grips the strap of her bag, her eyes flicking warily between them and the door at the end of the corridor where their father sleeps. “Are you _trying_ to make a fuss and get me caught?”

If she wasn’t concerned of that very fact, she’d slam the door in their faces.

Fynn bites his lip. Emil, ever the one to dive headfirst into any battle, raises his hand. “Of course not,” he says. Her brother is always loud, so the softness of his voice now is more shocking. “I know you told us not to see you off, but come on. You’re our sister. How could we not take this possibly final opportunity to say goodbye?”

His voice wavers slightly on the last line. Ingrid sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Come in,” she murmurs, stepping aside. “You’ll make less of a ruckus if you do.”

The corners of Emil’s lips curl into a small smile and he steps forward, gesturing for Fynn to follow him. Fynn follows, his usually strong archer’s posture now slumped in his exhaustion. Ingrid closes the door behind them, treating it as though it was made of fragile class that could shatter at the lightest touch. Her father is a heavy sleeper, but she doesn’t want the risk of her quiet departure being ruined by something as simple as a creaking door.

Not that he’s a bad father, by any means―Ingrid knows that he means well. But she also knows that he’s unendingly stubborn, will make a bigger deal about her leaving than she wants. He will try and turn this into a long, drawn-out negotiation, and neither of them will be willing to budge. It’s far easier to leave like this, and to say her goodbyes in the letter she spent days getting just right.

Her brothers are glancing around her room. It’s always been quite minimalist―Galatea’s never had the money to afford many personal belongings―but even now Ingrid has stripped it bear. Her sheets and her nightclothes are folded on the end of her bed to be washed. Her wardrobe is half-empty, and her little knickknacks placed in a box. The only thing that remains untouched are her books. Ingrid’s only regret about her new life is that she won’t be able to take any of her books with her―all her worldly possessions are now the sword on her hip, her lance, and the changes of clothes stuffed into the bag on her back.

(Lúin rests in the Galatea armoury, behind a locked door. Ingrid won’t be taking it with her.

Hopefully, the need for it to be used will never rise again.)

It really does seem like her brothers are only now realising that she’s uprooting herself, for good. Her room was her last true tie to House Galatea, and Ingrid’s cut that now, too.

“Make it quick,” she sighs. “Leonie will be here shortly, and I want to meet her as soon as she does.”

Emil grins, that sly, knowing grin of his he can _still_ somehow pull off while his eyes are hanging out of his head, but fortunately doesn’t comment on it.

“We’ll keep it short,” he reassures. “But, one last time, I have to ask: are you truly sure about this?”

“Positive,” Ingrid responds, with more surety than she’s ever had in her life, even when she thought she was going to marry Glenn and live a life following her knightly ideals. This is what she’s been hanging on to for the past year―nothing can change her mind.

Emil sighs. “I was expecting that,” he mutters, “But I had to make sure. I know you’re fully capable of protecting yourself, and a better fighter than both of us put together, but you’re still my little sister.” He smiles sadly. “I’m still gonna worry. I’m still gonna miss you.”

Ingrid rolls you eyes. “You idiot,” she sighs. She opens her arms. “Come on. I’ll miss you too.”

Emil smiles and sweeps her into a hug, picking her up off her feet and spinning her around. “So you _do_ have a heart,” he teases. “I don’t have to worry about this Leonie after all.”

“Shut up.” Ingrid punches his shoulder, and Emil clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter.

Ingrid gazes over Emil’s shoulder and spots Fynn standing behind them, hands clasped behind his back, looking slightly lost. Ingrid squeezes Emil’s arm and steps around him, approaching Fynn instead. He’s always been the quietest among them, and is the one who takes after their father the most with his seriousness―though Fynn’s far less stubborn than he is. 

Fynn clears his throat. “I didn’t know how to say everything I wanted to, Ingrid… so here.” He holds Ingrid’s palm and turns it upright, placing a letter within it. “I had a charm made for you as well. A pegasus, inscribed with our names. That way, we’re never truly apart.”

He talks like this is just another business deal, but Ingrid’s grown up with him long enough to know this is how he withstands emotions: by compartmentalising them with logic, and trying to turn them into something he can understand. Ingrid hugs the letter to her chest with one hand (she’ll read it later, or they’re all going to burst into tears), and with her free arm pulls him into a gentle hug.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and feels Fynn squeeze her in return.

They stay there for a few seconds before Fynn pulls away, clearing his throat once again.

“I woke up earlier than Emil, so I tacked Odette for you,” he says brusquely. “I fed her plenty of apples too, so she shouldn’t cause you any trouble this morning.”

Ingrid laughs. “You’re the best.”

“He is,” Emil agrees, clapping Fynn on the shoulder. “I’d be lost without him.” His expression softens when he turns at Ingrid. “Take care of yourself, you hear? I would like hire your services one day, and you need to be alive for me to do that!” He wipes away a fake tear. “My baby sister, a mercenary. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Ingrid sighs. She’s still of the opinion that Emil could’ve made a life for himself in theatre.

“Only hire me if Galatea is truly back on its feet,” she warns, folding her arms. “It’s more important to ensure the people’s well-being than to see me again.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep him in line,” Fynn says dryly, shooting Emil a pointed look. “And we have the farmers from Daphnel assisting us now―hopefully our fortunes will start to change for the better.”

Ingrid smiles. “I hope so.”

Still, she has a feeling that the tides are turning and things a finally falling into place. And there are no people she trusts more to look out for it than her brothers―it’s a weight off of her shoulders, knowing that, though she’s leaving, Galatea is still in good hands.

Ingrid wraps an arm around them both, one final time.

“I love you both,” she says, stepping away. She turns, then looks over her shoulder to add, “Don’t forget to give my letter to Father… and please don’t follow me out.”

Emil’s expression wavers slightly. “Okay,” he agrees heavily. “Love you too, Ingrid.” Beside him, Fynn nods.

Ingrid sends them one last smile, tucks her letter carefully into her bag, and leaves. She shuts the door behind her, leaving them alone in her room.

The house is silent as she makes her way through it, and nothing disturbs her as she reaches the back door and slips out of it. She picks up her pace once her footsteps are muffled by the grass, heading for the stables.

Normally she lingers at the stables, wanting nothing more than to spend as much time there as she’s allowed, but despite the fact she’s never going to see her horses or pegasi again, she can’t do that. She does gently pet the snout of every pegasus she passes until she reaches Odette―she’s alert and waiting, already tacked as Fynn had promised.

“Hey, girl,” she whispers, running her hand down Odette’s neck. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know when you’ll have the comfort of the stables again. I do, however, promise to take care of you on the road. Is that sufficient?”

Odette whinneys, and it almost sounds akin to agreement. Ingrid laughs under her breath. “Thank you.” She opens the stable door and grabs Odette’s reigns. “Come on, it’s time to go. You remember Leonie and Amria, don’t you? We’ll be spending a lot of time with them.”

She leads Odette down the path leading out of Galatea until they reach its end, where it forks into the main road. She shivers as she waits, though it has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the anticipation of waiting. Even a year after the war, Ingrid is unaccustomed to taking things slowly.

Then there’s the faint sound of footsteps, and Ingrid’s head perks up. She steps further onto the road and her heart soars to see Leonie ride into view, already waving. Ingrid tugs on Odette’s reigns and hurries to meet her.

Leonie’s changed: not much, but Ingrid spots the differences immediately. Her hair is a little shorter than it was, her face slightly more angular and her muscles more well-defined, and she wears trousers now instead of shorts (Ingrid would have told her off if she hadn’t―Faerghus is not a good place to be wearing shorts). But her eyes are still just as bright as they were a year ago and her cheeks are still flushed despite the early morning, so the knot of unease in Ingrid’s heart lessens. Leonie’s been well. She’s fine, and she’s positively radiant.

Ingrid shouldn’t have expected anything less, but she’d still worried.

Leonie jumps from Amira’s back and flashes a grin Ingrid’s way, as though she knows _exactly_ what she’s doing to Ingrid’s heart and is revelling in it.

“Hey, Ingrid,” she says. “I missed you out there.”

Ingrid nods. It’s distant, dazed―the only function her body remembers to perform with any clarity is breathing. “I missed you too,” she whispers.

She doesn’t say how much. She doesn’t tell Leonie that she counted down the days until a year passed, that she’d slept with Leonie’s letters under her pillow just to feel like she was close. How the only thing that got her through noble duties, the ability to keep up fake smiles while being introduced to an endless stream of suitors, to keep moving through her grief and witnessing to lands that were once Faerghus deteriorate before her was, was because she knew what awaited her at the end.

But, judging from Leonie’s smile, she understands.

Leonie reaches and offers her hand. Slowly, Ingrid takes one step closer, and then another, unable to tear her eyes away. She feels like she’s approaching a threshold, a barrier, and that once she steps over it she won’t be able to step back.

She can’t put her hand in Leonie’s fast enough.

Leonie grins and uses her hand to yank Ingrid closer. Ingrid laughs as her body crashes into Leonie’s, only to be replaced by a surprised, delighted gasp when Leonie leans down and pulls her into a kiss.

Ingrid tilts her head back further to give Leonie better access, pressing herself closer to Leonie’s chest. She can feel Leonie’s smile, shivers when Leonie kisses her with greater urgency, and picks up her own pace to match it. It’s desperate, urgent, and Ingrid can’t get enough. When they finally part, they’re both gasping for air.

“I’ve waited a whole year to do that,” Leonie laughs, her voice soft in its breathlessness.

Ingrid smiles. “Me too.” She’s imagined it, too, reread passages in her legends that described the heroic kiss between the knight and his lady―but this is better than anything she could have ever imagined. Better than how anything was described in a book.

If she has a lifetime of this to look forward to―well. Ingrid can easily get used to that.

Leonie presses another quick kiss to Ingrid’s lips, then reluctantly stands back and gestures to the road. “I hate to stop this so soon but―shall we? We should leave as soon as possible.”

Ingrid nods. “I’m ready.”

From that moment on, nothing can tear them apart.

.

.

.

 **Ingrid** **―Stalwart Knight, and Leonie―the Blade Breaker II**

After the war, Ingrid temporarily returned to Galatea to set its affairs in order. A year later Leonie, who had already achieved great renown as a mercenary, arrived at the doorstep to the Galatea Manor, and Ingrid joined her company. They fought many battles together, no one a match for the duo’s unbreakable trust and skill. When work dried up, they travelled beyond Fόdlan’s borders to see the rest of the world. It is said that the only thing stronger than their fighting prowess was the love they had for one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [return to the age of kings…](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285714/chapters/53223646)


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